


Gag Order

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Series: Gag Order [1]
Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 66,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis set his hand on Mike’s shoulder and gave him a firm shake.  “Get command of yourself.  You can do this.  Just remember: whatever Sandor wants, Sandor gets.  Be accommodating.  Get this guy signed.”  He waved a hand in front of Mike’s face.  “Hello.  Did you hear what I just said?  What are you going to be?”</p><p>Mike blinked.  “Accommodating?”</p><p>“That’s the spirit.  Now, get on that chopper.  I’ve got to get back to the office.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mike could see him in his peripheral vision, barreling straight towards him, looking like some weird creation from the Island of Doctor Moreau.  Mike willed him to pass by and dish out his diabolical brand of torture to someone else, but he stopped at Mike’s desk.  Knowing from past experience that pointedly ignoring him had no effect, Mike looked up, brutally suppressing the urge to scowl.

“No, Louis.  Don’t even think about pulling me away from Harvey’s work.  Not again.”

Louis Litt gave Mike a mincing little rodent sneer, arms crossed as he loomed over his cubicle.  “First of all, reviewing old contracts is not exactly breath-stoppingly vital work.  More importantly, Harvey is not here, as in out of town, as in clear across the country doing actual substantial billable work for the client.”

“Hey, this is all billable time.”

“That’s adorable, but I believe I specified ‘substantial,’ Mike.”

“Regardless,” he gritted through a clenched jaw, “it’s important if Harvey says it’s important.  And he’s flying back tonight.  I need to have something for him first thing in the morning.  So….”  Mike made a show of turning his attention back to the papers on his desk.

Louis was having none of it.  “Not my problem,” he said.  “You know, Harvey could have chosen to take you with him.  The fact that he didn’t tells me something.  What do you think it tells, me, Mike?”

Why did the way Louis pronounced his name always ending up sounding like an accusation or a rebuke?  Mike bit back a groan, letting it puff out of him in an exasperated sigh.  “Is there any way I can prevent you from sharing that with me and – I don’t know – letting me finish my work instead?”

Louis plowed on, undeterred.  “It tells me, Michael, that you are nowhere near as indispensable to Harvey as you evidently imagine.  But don’t worry.  I’m about to give you a chance to become even more indispensable to _me_ , which I hope you’ll come to realize in time is every bit as desirable, if not more so, than your slavish devotion to Harvey.”

“Slavish…that’s just….”  His thoughts derailed as he explored the resulting image a little too long.  He closed his eyes, marshaling patience.  “Fine.  Just tell me what you want.”  Mike let his gaze wander over the stack of documents on his desk and the three boxes crowding his feet that he had yet to open, resigned to another late night after he performed whatever annoying task Louis had in store for him.  With Harvey out of town taking depositions (and he would never admit to anyone how much he missed seeing him strut past, or hearing that smooth voice praise him or put him in his place), he was at Louis’ mercy, so there didn’t seem much point in prolonging the argument.

“You’re coming to lunch with me.  That’s all.  See?  I’m not such a monster.  So drop the highlighter, leave that ridiculous messenger bag here and follow me.”  He snapped his fingers bossily and moved off, heading for the elevators without looking back.

Shoulders slumping, Mike heaved himself to his feet.  As he eased himself around the file boxes and out of his cubicle, he caught the full brunt of Gregory’s baleful glare.  “What?” he asked the other associate.

Gregory just shook his head, keeping his thoughts to himself.  Mike figured he was jealous, and would have stopped to tell him he would gladly trade places with him, but he had to hurry to catch up with Louis, and then was forced to perform an awkward half-leap through the closing elevator doors in order to not be left behind. 

Mike’s irritated grunt had no discernible effect on the other man.

 

A limousine waited at street level and curiosity began to dissolve Mike’s resentment.

“What’s the occasion, Louis?” he quipped.  “And where’s my wrist corsage, dammit?”

“The occasion,” said Louis, waiting for the privacy glass to close completely, cutting them off from the driver, “is an opportunity that any first year associate would kill for.”

“O-kaaay.  Maybe you could start by telling me where we’re going?”

“I assume even you have heard of Sandor St. John?”

“What?  No.  You’re kidding, right?  _The_ Sandor St. John?  The ka-jillionaire, computer genius, media mogul, empire-building, most eligible bachelor in the universe Sandor St. John?”

“No, Michael.  Some nobody cashier at Wal-Mart.  Duh.  Yes, _that_ Sandor St. John.”

“Wow.  So this is his limo?  And he is who we’re having lunch with?  Why?”

Louis got a shifty look on his face and refused to meet Mike’s eye.  Mike didn’t think anything of it at the time, barely even registered it, but later he would remember that look and the oddly oblique answer Louis gave him.

“You’re being given an amazing opportunity, Mike.”

“Is he really our client?”

“No, but after today I have every expectation that he will be.  A competitor has filed a lawsuit against him.  There are some intellectual property issues…or something.”  He waved his hand dismissively.

“Or something?”  Mike gave a snort of laughter.  “That’s uncharacteristically vague of you, Louis.  Not very lawyerly.”

“The details aren’t important right now.  We’re courting the man.  He’s not happy with his current representation and he’s shopping around.  If we can nail this, show our value to him, we are looking at tens of millions in potential fees.  Maybe more.  The sky’s the limit.”

A hint of unease whispered through Mike.  Why was Louis dragging a first year associate along to woo a major player like Sandor St. John?  “Um.  Louis.  Maybe you should wait for Harvey to get back.”

“No, I shouldn’t.  Because, Mike, Mr. St. John specifically requested you.”

“ _Me_?”

“And – ” Louis held up a finger to shush him “ – you will do whatever it takes, give him whatever he wants, do you understand?”

Mike frowned, his unease growing.  “Don’t even try to talk me into getting high with him, if that’s what you mean.  Harvey nearly kicked me to the curb after the last time.”  He repressed a shudder as he recalled Harvey’s chilling anger and disappointment when he had shown up at work baked out of his skull.

Louis made a scoffing noise which sounded like a malevolent snake’s hiss _._   “Don’t be  ridiculous.  Sandor St. John is not looking for some stoner buddy.  The stakes here are much higher.  No pun intended.”

“Oh.  Then why…?”  Why did Louis want Mike there?  Why not Jessica or Harvey or any of the other partners? 

Louis gave him that smirk again that Mike hated so much.  “Don’t concern your pretty little head, Michael.  Just smile and make nice and you won’t have a thing to worry about.”

Mike wasn’t convinced, but arguing with Louis was too draining to continue.  For now he would just go with the flow and see how things went with St. John.  In the meantime, he determined to enjoy the ride and relaxed into the leather seats of – _sweet holy Moses!_ – the plushest, most comfortable vehicle he had ever been in.  Harvey’s town car drove like a broken down Gremlin with bad shocks and mildewed upholstery compared to St. John’s limo.  Mike expected that they would be driven to an exclusive restaurant or club, or some posh high rise, but now that he had taken the time to pay attention, he could see the East River coming into view in front of them.

“Is that…wait, that’s the helipad.  We’re not…”  It appeared that they were, though, as the limo rolled to a stop not far from a sleek helicopter, blades already in motion.  He turned to stare incredulously at Louis.  “Where exactly is this lunch.  Louis?”

The other man’s phone chose that moment to trill out a tinny version of “Nessun Dorma” and Louis fished it out of his pocket and listened intently for perhaps half a minute.  “Uh huh.  Yep.  Understood.  Be there in twenty minutes.”  He sighed.  “Well, Mike, it looks like you’re on your own for lunch.”

“What?  No no no.  That’s crazy talk.  We can reschedule.  We have to reschedule.  Or you can find someone else.  But you can’t seriously mean to send me alone to meet with Sandor Freaking St. John.”

Louis set his hand on Mike’s shoulder and gave him a firm shake.  “Get command of yourself.  You can do this.  Just remember: whatever Sandor wants, Sandor gets.  Be accommodating.  Get this guy signed.”  He waved a hand in front of Mike’s face.  “Hello.  Did you hear what I just said?  What are you going to be?”

Mike blinked.  “Accommodating?”

“That’s the spirit.  Now, get on that chopper.  I’ve got to get back to the office.”

Mike hesitated.

“Go,” said Louis.  “Go go go.  Go now.  Oh, and take this.”  He shoved a folder at Mike.  “Bring me back a signed retainer agreement and your future, my young friend, will be all rainbows and lollipops.”

“Lollipops?  Really?  Okay, okay, I’m going.”  The cushy upholstery of the limousine seemed to want to hold him inside, but with a little effort he managed to lever himself out to stand uncertainly at the edge of the helipad, feeling the whirling rotors ruffle his hair, making it stand on end.  He shivered at the sensation.

The tires on the limo didn’t squeal, exactly, but they may as well have, it raced off that quickly.  And then he was alone, preparing to board a private helicopter to have lunch with (depending on the week) either the second or third richest man in America.  He wished Harvey was there.  Harvey could handle any situation with the utmost aplomb, but he was currently on the other side of the country or perhaps on a plane by now, relaxing in first class and making his way home.  With no other choice than to bluff his way through lunch somehow, Mike stooped over and jogged to the door of the helicopter, gave the pilot a confident – and completely fake – grin, and climbed inside.

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

Mike had never been to the Hamptons before, but as the chopper headed east, making for the far end of Long Island, he realized that must be where they were headed, and understood the reasoning for leaving the limo behind.  What could easily be a three or four hour drive, depending on traffic, could probably be accomplished in forty-five minutes or less in the air.  Although he had put on the offered headset, the pilot did not seem inclined to talk, so Mike enjoyed the view and tried not to think ahead to lunch.

The late fall day had started out clear, but high clouds now scudded in from the east and Mike could feel the occasional strong gusts of wind that buffeted the helicopter.  He wasn’t normally prone to motion sickness, but by the time they set down in the middle of an enormous expanse of perfectly manicured lawn, Mike felt queasy and a little shaky.  He took a few steadying breaths before climbing out of the helicopter, ducking under the blades until he was clear, and then gazing around him.

An enormous house – no, a mansion, a fucking, honest-to-god mansion – with several wings loomed an impossible distance away.  Just as Mike was wondering if he was supposed to hike all the way up the low hill to reach it, an electric golf cart appeared over a rise and glided down the lawn towards him. 

“Michael Ross?” asked the man behind the wheel.  He was built like a linebacker and dressed in a black velour jogging suit.

“Mike,” he answered automatically.  At the driver’s nod, he climbed in and they set off toward the house.  As the cart climbed higher, Mike could see that the house – mansion – sat near the end of a long point of land, completely isolated, and surrounded by lush gardens, a tennis court, a swimming pool…and that was just what Mike could see from the cart as his head swiveled one way and then the other trying to take it all in.  Past the house, the ocean gleamed glossy pewter on one side of the point, and churned with whitecaps on the other side.

After ten minutes, they reached the house and pulled around to the back where a huge patio curved around a lap pool.  A wrought iron table and four chairs sat close to some sliding glass doors.  A tall, tawny-haired man with elegant features sprawled in one of the chairs with an open laptop in front of him, watching as Mike approached.  Mike recognized Sandor St. John immediately, and his first thought was that all of the newspaper and magazine articles and television coverage did not do the man justice.  When he rose to greet Mike and extended his hand, he topped Mike by a good four inches.  Even though he was close to twenty years his senior, he remained fit and powerfully built.  As they shook hands, Mike winced at the strong grip, and then laughed nervously.  Hazel eyes studied him, partly brown and partly green and flecked with gold.

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Ross,” St. John purred, his voice a raspy baritone.

“You too, sir.  And please call me Mike.”  He dragged his hand away, trying to get a read on the man.  The considering gaze had his palms sweating.  How should one act in the presence of a ka-jillionaire?

“All right.  Mike it is,” said St. John, all suave bonhomie in his loose linen drawstring pants and midnight blue raw silk shirt hanging open over a white ribbed tank.  “And you can call me…Sir.”  He laughed, showing his teeth.

Not knowing what to make of St. John’s predatory grin, Mike just nodded in response, shifting the folder with the retainer agreement to his other hand and trying to appear serious, like a lawyer.  He flinched when St. John leaned towards him to murmur, “Unclench, Michael.  It’s just lunch.”  He reached past him to retrieve his laptop.  “Which, I believe, should be ready and waiting.  We’ll be eating inside, since it’s gotten a little breezy out here.  Come along.”

Feeling impossibly young and unsophisticated, Mike followed St. John through the sliding glass doors into a spacious solarium accented with abundant tropical plants and comfortable furniture.  Mike looked around for signs of lunch, but didn’t see any.  St. John kept moving, so Mike hurried his pace to keep up with him.  As they moved through the house, Mike had to make a conscious effort to keep his mouth closed, not to gape like some absurd country mouse at the cavernous interior, tasteful, obscenely expensive furnishings and cutting edge technology in every room through which they passed.  Mike had been seriously impressed with Harvey’s place the one time he’d seen it, but compared to St. John’s home, it was a shoebox furnished with Popsicle stick furniture.

They climbed a wide curving staircase and passed through an archway into what Mike thought was another wing.  Unlike the downstairs, this area had a more intimate, casual feel to it.  St. John slowed and let him catch up, placing a hand at his back to guide him along.  Mike tensed up but didn’t say anything and let himself be propelled forward until they entered a huge bedroom with an impossibly large bed.  He stopped dead and gave an embarrassed cough, wondering what was bigger than a king-sized bed.  Emperor-sized, maybe?

St. John gave his back a gentle shove and Mike’s legs started moving again.

“My private quarters,” the older man confirmed needlessly.  “I had lunch set up on the balcony.  It has the best view of the ocean and it’s protected from the wind.”

Any unease Mike felt about being led through Sandor St. John’s bedroom evaporated as soon as he stepped out onto the balcony.  Without thinking, he walked straight to the railing, gripping it and staring in undisguised awe.  If the view of the ocean from ground level had been impressive, from here it was spectacular.  Most of the clouds had drifted north and the sun turned the grey Atlantic to a shining blue-green.  A scatter of white sails were visible in the distance and seagulls hovered and dived over the waves near the shore.  Mike inhaled the fresh, salty scent of the ocean and forgot for a moment what he was doing there.  St. John’s long-fingered hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed.

Caught off guard, Mike jumped and lost his grip on the retainer agreement.  It fluttered to the ground close to the edge of the balcony.  He dove for it, but St. John got there first, gracefully scooping it up and tapping the edges straight inside the folder.  Mike had landed on his knees, watching to make sure St. John had the document safely in hand.  Now, staring up at the older man he froze, caught in the intense gaze being directed down at him.  St. John opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something and then seemed to change his mind, smiling instead and reaching a hand down to help Mike back to his feet.

“I’ll put this somewhere safe,” St. John said, and disappeared inside for a few seconds with the folder and his laptop.  When he returned, he was rubbing his hand together.  “Now, let’s eat before your food gets cold.”  He swept a hand toward the table in the far corner of the balcony where Mike could see two covered plates, one with steam still rising from the vents.

As they moved to sit down, a stray, troubling thought niggled at him: how odd it was that aside from the helicopter pilot, the driver of the golf cart and St. John himself, Mike hadn’t seen a single other person in the enormous house or on the vast grounds.  Before the thought had the chance to blossom into full-blown worry, a heavenly aroma began a happy seduction of his senses.  He didn’t know what he had been expecting – perhaps lobster or a delectable cut of beef or something exotic and unpronounceable – but not…. 

“No,” he gasped, letting his professional lawyerly demeanor slip for a moment as he sat down and lifted the covering from his plate to reveal a serving of mac ‘n cheese so mouth-wateringly gorgeous that he couldn’t stop himself from breaking into a delighted grin.  “Oh.  My.  God.”  He lifted his fork and turned to St. John, who stood at his side, gazing down at him with an unreadable expression.  “Can I…?”

“Dig in.”  He seated himself across the table.

Mike took a bite and closed his eyes in bliss at the hot, cheesy perfection.  “Mmm,” he moaned, and then blushed when he opened his eyes to find St. John staring at his mouth.  He swallowed hurriedly.  “Sorry.  I have this…thing for mac ‘n cheese.”

St. John uncovered his own plate and Mike was surprised to see a simple green salad with a scatter of shrimp on top.  “I know.”

“Wait.  You know?  How…?”

Unfolding his napkin with precise movements and draping it over his lap, St. John smiled tightly.  “You might be surprised to hear the things I know about you, Michael.  Don’t stop.  Enjoy it while it’s still hot.”

His enthusiasm a little dampened by the odd turn to the conversation, Mike slowed down, but continued eating.  “I guess it’s only fair,” he shrugged.  “Pretty much everyone knows about your life.”

“Perhaps.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

After Mike had eaten about half of his lunch, he recalled why he was there.  He took a sip of wine, raised his eyebrows and took another, bigger sip.  He wasn’t usually a wine drinker, but this was really good – crisp, white, not too dry.  It went perfectly with his mac ‘n cheese.  He cleared his throat.

“Louis tells me that a lawsuit is going to be filed against St. John Industries.  Can you fill me in on the details?”

St. John swiped his napkin over his mouth and fiddled with his mineral water.  “Just another annoying mosquito buzzing around, looking to siphon off a little blood.  I’m sure they’ll be summarily swatted, like all the others.”  He smiled, eyes growing dark.  “I didn’t invite you here to talk about that.  We can go over the details some other time, assuming I decide to hire your firm.  Today is just about getting to know each other.” 

“Um.  You already know my favorite food, so….”

“Michael, relax.  Drink your wine.”

“No hardship there.  This is delicious.  I don’t even wike line...like wine.  Wow.  That was weird.”  He gulped some more wine to cover his embarrassment, surprised by how quickly he was feeling the alcohol.  “You really asked for me?  Me, specifically?”

St. John smiled.  “You, specifically.”

“See, that’s...that confuses me.  Somewhat.”  He tugged at the knot on his tie, loosening it.  “Oh, boy.  Is it warm?”  He struggled to remove his suit coat and then jumped when St. unexpectedly appeared behind him, pulling it off his shoulders and down his arms.  “Oh.  Hello there.  Thanks, dude.  Um, sir.”  He blinked slowly, confused by his suddenly blurry vision.  “Is it warm?  Did I ask that already?  Because it really is…so fucking warm.  I think I need to…I’ve got to make a phone call.”

If pressed, he couldn’t have said for sure who he planned to call.  He only knew that he was in trouble.  While he fought to focus on the keypad, trying to think of who he had on speed dial, the cell phone was plucked from his weak grasp.  “You want my phone?” he slurred.  “Com…company property.  Hold on.  I’ll be right back.”  He stood up and had to squeeze his eyes shut when a wave of dizziness swept through him.  Turning too quickly, he lost his balance and lurched into the table.  Distantly, he heard the sound of clinking glass and the muted thud of silverware hitting the ground.  He reached for the edge of the table and missed.

“Let me help,” whispered a voice in his ear.  A muscular arm circled his waist.

Mike craned his head around and gaped up at his host, mouth moving, no words coming out.  _This is messed up,_ was his last thought before he sagged against St. John and lost the world for a time.


	2. Chapter 2

At a quarter to two, Harvey swept off the elevator and down the hallway of Pearson Hardman, exhausted and pissed off.  Before even heading to his office, he swung by Mike’s cubicle.  Catching sight of the documents still piled on his desk and the apparently unopened banker’s boxes shoved underneath, his mood took another plunge.

“Damn it, Mike,” he muttered.  He laid eyes on another associate and jabbed his index finger in his direction.  “You,” he barked.  “What’s your name?”

Wide eyes stared back at him.  “Um.  Gre – ”

“Oh, wait.  I forgot.  I don’t care.  Have you seen Mike Ross?”  He waited, but “Gre-“ did not reply quickly enough to satisfy Harvey, so he pivoted and headed down the hall to his office.

“Donna – ”

“Harvey.”

“Where the hell is Mike?”

Donna never took her eyes off the computer screen.  “Last spotted following Louis onto the elevator.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Two hours, give or take.”

“Shit.  Okay.  Would you call him and….No, never mind, I’ll do it.”

Inside his office, he paced to the window and stared out at the Manhattan skyline as he dialed Mike (number three with a bullet on his speed dial, although he would never admit that to the kid).  His call went straight to voicemail, as if Mike’s phone had been turned off.  Harvey could feel his blood pressure inching upwards as he left a terse message.  He tried Louis next and although his phone at least rang, it also went to voicemail.

He considered his options.  After what three of Kerwin, Inc.’s former employees had told him in Seattle, it had become more imperative than ever to scour the company’s personnel records and internal memos for any hint of sexual harassment or discriminatory hiring practices.  A missing-in-action Mike was a serious setback to accomplishing that with the speed required.

He poked his head out the door.  “Donna, I need someone – maybe that brown-haired guy? – to take over for Mike until he gets back.”

She leaned around her monitor and arched an eyebrow at him.  “The ‘brown-haired guy’?  Could you be more specific?”

“The douchey one who sits near Mike.”

“Again, more specific, please.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.  I can’t be expected keep them all straight.  I just need a warm body.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Ha ha.”

“You should talk to Louis.”

He gave a sigh that ended in a low growl.  “He’s not here, remember?”

“Sure he is.  He slithered by not five minutes ago.”

“Was Mike with him?”

“Nope.”

“Is Mike somewhere in the building?”

“No idea.”

“Okay.  Is it your intention to make me scream like a hysterical little girl?  Because I’m about ten seconds from doing just that.”

The look on Donna’s face told Harvey that she was enjoying herself far too much.

“Been on my bucket list for years, boss.”

“You’re hilarious.”  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing he’d had the forethought to drink heavily on the plane.  “So,” he said, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly because he knew it pissed Donna off when he did that, “do you have any idea at all where Mike might be?”

She shot him a flat stare and enunciated right back at him.  “No I do not.  Maybe you should talk to Louis.  Oh, wait.  I already suggested that.”

Donna returned her attention to her computer screen, and Harvey knew he would get nothing else out of her.  He went to find Louis.

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

Cool liquid trickled down Mike’s throat and he came awake, gasping and coughing.

“Time to wake up, Michael.”

A hand tapped his cheek and more liquid was poured into him.  Water, he recognized through the fog in his mind, but with a slightly bitter aftertaste.

“That’s it.  Swallow.  You’ll feel clearer in a minute.”

Since it was either swallow or choke, Mike gulped down as much as he was able, and felt the excess dribble down his chin.  He tried to wipe it away, which was the moment when he discovered that his hands were secured above him to the head of Sandor St. John’s enormous bed.

"What?" he croaked, and then cleared his throat.  Between one breath and the next, his head did, indeed, feel clearer.  He blinked rapidly and discovered St. John seated on the edge of the bed, studying him with an avidity that suggested a dedicated collector admiring his latest acquisition.    Comprehension of what had happened burst in Mike’s brain with the force of a hand grenade.  “You drugged me, you asshole.”

St. John chuckled and rubbed the back of his index finger over Mike’s cheekbone almost affectionately.  Mike jerked his head away and glared.

“Michael.  You’re absolutely breathtaking like this.”

“Like – ”  He let his gaze follow the path St. John’s had taken, from his bound wrists down the length of his body.  His jacket and shoes had been removed while he was out, and his tie loosened.  He watched his narrow feet, still clad in dark grey socks, move restlessly near the end of the bed.  Hazily, he wondered why a man like St. John, who could likely have bought anyone he wanted, or more likely just crooked a finger in their direction, would take this trouble with him, Mike Ross.

“Are – ”  He stopped to clear his throat again and coughed a few times.  The idea seemed preposterous, but he had to ask.  “Are you going to rape me?”

St. John frowned as if offended, although his eyes remained bright with amusement.  “Of course not.”

Mike’s heart sped up, considering other possibilities.  “Are you going to make a skin suit out of me?” he whispered, only half-kidding.

This time St. John tipped his head back and laughed with apparent delight.  “Leaving aside the fact that I couldn’t get much more than a leg warmer out of you, no.  You’ve completely misinterpreted the situation.” 

“Can you blame me?”  He shifted, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders.  St. John’s gaze remained fixed on him, hazel-brown-gold and nearly translucent.  Mike forced himself to maintain eye contact.  “How am I supposed to interpret this?”

St. John reached up to flick Mike’s bangs off of his forehead in an altogether too intimate gesture.  “I just wanted your undivided attention while I explained some things to you.”

It wasn’t the words so much, as the way St. John stressed the “things” he wanted to explain.  Mike’s pulse picked up as undefined dread filled him.  His whole chest seemed to vibrate with each fearful beat of his heart.  _What things?_ he wanted to ask.  He watched, transfixed, as St. John turned away and picked up a short table from the floor, the sort of thing one might use to serve breakfast in bed.  He positioned it over Mike’s thighs and opened the laptop which sat on top of it. 

“Let’s talk, Michael.”

Mike scrunched his forehead in confusion.  “Uh, the whole reason I came here was to talk and listen.  Why’d you have to drug me?” he asked.

“Oh.  I suppose I didn’t, really.  This is fun though, isn’t it?  You, tied up, helpless, your mind racing in a hundred different directions trying to understand.”  He smiled toothily.  “Well, fun for me.  Now, please pay attention.”  He hit the space bar on the laptop.

A blurred image smoothly resolved itself into Mike’s firm portrait, the one he had been sent to take his first week at Pearson Hardman.  He wore a dark grey suit and black tie, and he looked out with wide eyes and a grin that Harvey had mocked as both goofy and guileless.  Mike hadn’t cared for the photograph, as it made him look about twelve years old, but he had no veto power, and the picture had gone up on the firm’s website the next day.

St. John seemed to be waiting for a reaction from him.  “Okay,” he said.  “It’s me.  So?”

“Yes,” St. John breathed, looking back and forth between Mike and the laptop as if comparing the image to the reality of Mike’s presence.  “So charming and innocent and fresh.  Do you realize I picked you out from hundreds of other young associates in Manhattan?  Your picture jumped right out at me.  Once I saw you, there really was no other choice.”

“Lucky me,” Mike muttered.  He shifted again, feeling sweat trail down his back, smelling it under his arms.  He wished St. John would get to the point.

“And here you are in a slightly more recent shot.”

St. John clicked and the first picture dissolved to be replaced by a grainy image of Mike on his knees.  He didn’t recognize the location, had only a vague recollection of getting stupid drunk a few weeks earlier, getting picked up in a bar and stumbling several blocks and then up musty carpeted stairs to a shadowy apartment.  He barely recalled the man’s face but had a clear memory of being pushed ungently to the cement floor and losing himself in the taste and texture and smell of the man’s cock, sucking him eagerly down and spending minutes, hours, days – forever – listening to his grunts and moans as he battered Mike’s throat while Mike squeezed his eyes shut and pretended it was Harvey there with him.

And then he had – St. John clicked and the image changed again – then he had let the man bend him over a table and cuff his hands to the table legs.  He’d had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting Harvey’s name when he came hard humping the scarred tabletop.  The unnamed man had left him alone afterwards with his pants tangled around his feet, picking splinters out of his hips and thighs.  He’d been sore for days afterwards.

And how exactly had someone taken photos of all that?

The images dissolved one into another, replaying the night from start to humiliating finish.  Mike couldn’t look away.  He gave a puff of bitter laughter.

“You prepared a PowerPoint presentation to blackmail me?”

Amused hazel eyes gleamed at Mike.  “Wrong on both counts.  For one thing, the program is my own creation and far superior to PowerPoint.  And the purpose isn’t blackmail.  I’m merely sharing information so you can make an informed decision.”

“Decision about what?”

“Just keep watching.”

St. John moved closer to Mike and stretched out next to him, warm against his side.  When Mike tried unsuccessfully to put space between them, St. John rested his hand on Mike’s thigh, stroking lightly from time to time, as if he had the right, and providing soft commentary on what appeared on the screen.

“Your young hacker friend was very good, but I’m so much better.  Watch this.  There you are on the Harvard website, so official looking.  But if I do this – ”  He pressed a combination of keys which Mike couldn’t follow.  “ – I can roll back the screen to a previous version and…poof!  You’re gone as if you never existed.  Pretty neat, huh?  I’m not sure if I should sell that little invention to the government, or keep it for myself.”

The cold shock Mike felt surpassed that of viewing his night of drunken sex.  His stomach roiled, bile rising, and he swallowed convulsively, determined not to lose control.  Something touched his lower lip and he startled, looking down to see that the water glass had reappeared.  He gulped gratefully, catching St. John’s gaze and holding it, reading curiosity disguised as compassion.  He suspected where this all was leading, even before the next set of images appeared.  Still the picture of his grandmother asleep in bed had him gasping and choking.  This time he turned his head away from the offered water.

“What the hell?” he spluttered between coughing fits.  “She’s…that’s really low, man.”

St. John didn’t bother replying, simply allowed a copy of his grandmother’s account balance to appear, showing the account as current.  That picture faded, the statement dripping artfully off of the screen to be replaced by one that looked just as authentic, and which indicated that no payments had been made for several months.  “FINAL NOTICE” had been overlaid in bold red lettering.

Mike felt like he couldn’t breathe.  He strained against his bonds.  “That’s not accurate.  I’ve been on time with every single payment.”

“Calm down, Michael.  It’s a demonstration, nothing more.”

“Not blackmail?  Really?”  Defeated, Mike sagged into the mattress.  “What is it that you want?”

After closing the laptop and moving both it and the table back to the floor, St. John settled back next to Mike, brushing away errant strands of hair and thumbing his lower lip until Mike just wanted to scream at him to keep his fucking hands to himself.  But he said nothing, waiting resignedly for an answer.

“I want you, Michael.  Pretty simple, really.  But I want nothing less than your total surrender.  Your complete obedience.  I want your delectable lips wrapped around my cock.  I want you tied to my bed or anything else I choose for as long as I choose.  I want you to be my perfect little whore until I grow tired of you, at which time I want you to fade away and never speak a word of this to anyone.  I want this delicious secret to stay between the two of us, and if you promise me all of that, you can avoid the embarrassment of having your friends and colleagues see the pictures I’ve shown you, you can continue practicing law as if you deserved to, and your charming grandmother can continue living in that fine facility.”

He rolled away for a moment to retrieve something from the top of the nightstand.  “And let’s not forget this.”  Mike recognized the folder with Pearson Hardman’s retainer agreement.  “I’ll sign this, although with a few alterations.  You’ll share credit with Louis Litt for bringing me to your firm.  Of course, I’ll want Harvey Specter to handle the pending lawsuit, with your able assistance.  That is just for starters.  If you continue to please me, I’ll continue to send work your way.  I think it’s safe to say that your future at Pearson Hardman would be very bright.  And all you have to do is answer when I call, any time of day or night, and we’ll play until I say you can go.  You’ll sit in on all the meetings with Harvey and Louis and Jessica Pearson, all attentive in your starched white shirts – ” he buried his nose in Mike’s shoulder and inhaled deeply “ – and proper little ties knotted up neat and tight, and no one but you and I will know our little secret.”

Mike could only gape at him.  _This isn’t happening_ , he kept telling himself.  The really twisted part about the whole twisted situation – and he would never admit it, not now – was that if St. John had made a pass at him, had just deigned to smile suggestively at him, Mike probably would have submitted willingly, with or without large amounts of alcohol.  But this…this just seemed like overkill.  Surreal, degrading, panic-attack inducing overkill.

For a moment he couldn’t get past the absurdity of it.  Why had St. John felt the need to go all evil super villain on _him_?  Then a stray memory slotted into place, his mind kicked into gear, and he began running through all of the articles he had ever read about the man.  Suddenly it all became sickeningly clear.  Every writer and interviewer – and even St. John himself – had remarked on the man’s penchant for complete domination, the need to utterly crush his opposition and take no quarter.  This compulsion lay at the root of his success, and had earned him both admiration and passionate hatred.  Most of all, it had earned him billions of dollars.

Sure, St. John could have crooked a well-manicured finger at Mike and gotten what he wanted, but instead he had decided to squash him like an inconsequential insect, and to have Mike agree to said squashing.

“Well?”  St. John laid a hand against the side of Mike’s neck.  “I can almost see all the thoughts tumbling over themselves inside your head.  I can certainly feel your agitation.”  An elegant finger pressed against Mike’s carotid.  “By now, I’m sure you’ve weighed up all the options and realized you have only one.”  He tilted his head to one side and Mike felt the first real spark of hatred replace his numb shock.  It galled him that the man could appear so beautiful and self-assured as he broke Mike into a million pieces.  “Yes?”

Mike swallowed and the sound seemed to fill the room.  He wished that he could shrink into nothing and disappear, that this moment before he gave his answer could stretch and stretch indefinitely, but finally he nodded, his whole body feeling heated and chilled all at once at what he was forced to agree to.  “Yeah.  Okay.”

St. John leaned over him, smiling angelically, smelling of expensive cologne and sharp animal sweat, and unfastened the leather cuffs from Mike’s wrists.  He helped Mike sit up next to him on the edge of the bed and rubbed his shoulders to ease the ache in them.  Mike couldn’t stop the sigh of relief that hissed out of him.  When St. John lifted his hands and placed soft, moist kisses on the inside of his wrists, he gave a choked cry of revulsion and tried to pull away.  St. John held on and squeezed just to the point of discomfort.

“This is not a promising start, Michael.  You’re supposed to have such a flawless memory.  What did you just agree to?  I should think a smart boy like you could guess what happens next.”  He waited.  When Mike only glared at him he sighed.  Too quick for Mike to stop him, he tugged hard, sending Mike toppling to the floor. 

Mike sat up, rubbing a throbbing elbow, and found himself at eye level with St. John’s crotch.  _Don’t think about what you’re doing…just get it over with._   He started to unbutton his shirt, ignoring his shaking hands.

“No, Michael.  Leave it on for now.  Just…take me out and suck me.”

Mike knelt up and did as instructed, trying to make his mind a blank.  When that didn’t work he closed his eyes and pictured Harvey in front of him, which wasn’t easy with St. John’s hands on his head cradling the back of his skull, fingers massaging his scalp and his voice a soft, harsh rasp that knifed into his soul and made the air feel thick with corruption.  “That’s it, Michael.  Oh, sweet boy.  You’re so good.  So perfect.  My own little pet attorney.  We’ll have such fun together.”

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

It was nearly six o’clock when Harvey glanced up to see Donna leaning against his doorframe, coat on and purse tucked under one arm.

“You taking off?”  He pushed his chair back from his desk and stretched his arms over his head.

She nodded.  Her eyes narrowed as her gaze flicked over him, seeming to take in every detail of his appearance and mood before she spoke.  “Mike’s back.”

A flare of something he decided to label “annoyance” lit up his insides for a millisecond.  He kept his expression carefully neutral.  “Great.  I’m sure Louis will be thrilled.”

“Harvey….”

“You know, I’m thinking of trading Mike in for the brown-haired guy.  He turned out to be surprisingly adequate.  Still douchey, but adequate.”

“Hmm.  Well, before I get out of here, it might interest you to know that Mike and Louis are in Jessica’s office and my spies tell me the atmosphere positively reeks of celebration.”

He stared at her thoughtfully.  “The kid must have signed that mysterious client.”  It irked him that Louis had refused to tell him who Mike had gone to meet.  He had faced Harvey across his desk with his arms crossed, face contorted in a smug sneer that Harvey had been sorely tempted to slap off of his face.

All afternoon, Harvey had tried not to think about Mike being sent by Louis as bait to snare another client.  The incident with Tom Keller and the memory of Mike floating around his office high as a kite still made Harvey’s blood boil.  _Fucking Louis_.

Donna continued to watch him with a shrewd look on her face.  “Maybe you should….”  She raised an eyebrow and jerked her head at the hallway in the direction of Jessica’s corner office.

Harvey nodded and rose to his feet, unrolled his shirtsleeves and shrugged into his jacket, smoothing the expensive material and buttoning it.  “Donna, when you’re right, you’re right.”

He fought a smile as her voice drifted after him down the hallway.  “And I’m always right.  You know this.”

He paused outside Jessica’s office, studying the little tableau inside for a moment.  Jessica perched on the edge of her desk, sharing a serene smile between Mike and Louis.  Louis reclined on her couch, appearing both elated and irritated.  And Mike…he stood just inside the door, arms crossed tightly across his chest in an oddly defensive pose, head bobbing up and down at whatever Jessica was saying to him.  Something he refused to acknowledge as concern tightened Harvey’s features as he realized that the normally ebullient Mike Ross seemed not the least bit pleased about what was evidently a major accomplishment, if Louis’ earlier hints were any indication.  The fixed smile on his face could have been chipped from a block of ice and his eyes darted around Jessica’s office, never pausing anywhere for longer than a second or two.

Frowning, Harvey stepped inside, clapping a hand on Mike’s shoulder only to feel him jerk as if he had been electrocuted.

“A little jumpy, aren’t you, rookie?” he murmured and then raised his voice to address the other two people in the room.  “Rumor has it that congratulations are in order…to someone…for…something.  Since this seems to revolve around my associate, would one of you care to enlighten me?”

Mike edged away from him, still avoiding eye contact.  Louis opened his mouth as if to speak (gloat, more likely), but Jessica cut him off before he could even get a squeak out.

“Harvey.  Excellent timing.  Mr. Ross has scored quite a coup for the firm.  In fact we were just about to have a toast.”

A young man who Harvey didn’t think he had ever seen before slid into the office past him and placed a bottle of champagne and three flutes on the credenza next to Jessica’s desk, and then disappeared noiselessly back into the hallway.  Louis busied himself opening the bottle while Jessica hunted up a fourth glass, which turned out to be a heavy cut crystal tumbler from the set he’d seen often enough when they had shared her expensive scotch after an especially difficult day.  Louis poured and passed around the glasses, handing Harvey the mismatched one.

“Is anyone going to tell me the name of this mystery client?”  He glanced around the room.  Mike refused to meet his gaze.  Jessica beamed proudly and extended a hand towards Louis, indicating that he should be the one to break the news.

“Oh, only Sandor St. John of St. John Industries,” Louis said breezily, eyes bright with satisfaction.  “I assume you’ve heard of him?”

Caught in a rare moment of shock, Harvey turned to stare at Mike.  “You didn’t.  _Really_?  How?”

Mike turned a deep shade of red and finally looked up, knuckles white against the champagne flute and eyes wide and filled with some emotion Harvey couldn’t decipher.  His intense study of the younger man was interrupted by Jessica.

“He certainly did.  When Louis was called away at the last minute, Mike here stepped up and must have thoroughly charmed the man over lunch.  Mr. St. John has requested – and I’ve agreed – that Mr. Ross be given half the credit for bringing him on board.  Harvey, you and Mr. Ross will be handling the lawsuit brought against St. John Industries by the Cicada Group.  If all goes well – and I know you’ll make sure that it does – we’ll be getting more of his work as time goes on.”

Louis cleared his throat and lowered his head to give Jessica a meaningful stare.

“No, Louis.  I didn’t forget you.  Louis was the one first approached by Mr. St. John.  He’ll expect to take point on matters within his areas of expertise.  And he’s agreed to handle the lion’s share of billing, which I’m sure you won’t object to, Harvey, knowing how you would rather spend your time on less mundane things.”

“No.  No objections.  Sounds like a great opportunity for the firm.”  If he didn’t sound as enthusiastic as he might have, it was because he had most of his attention focused on Mike, trying to figure out what was going on with the kid and why his behavior seemed so off. 

“Great.  Now, before our champagne gets warm, let’s do this.”  Jessica raised her glass.  “To Mike Ross.”

Jessica and Louis each drank.  Harvey started to do the same, but paused, arrested by the expression on Mike’s face.  He was staring into his glass as if he expected an army of cockroaches to crawl out of it.

“Drink up, kid,” he urged, raising his glass in Mike’s direction.  “Sounds like you done good today.”  He savored the excellent champagne, and studied Mike’s now pale face as he pretended to take a drink and then coughed lightly, wincing as if his throat hurt.

“So,” said Jessica, standing up and moving around her desk, signaling that the impromptu celebration was at an end.  “Everyone be available two nights from now.  Mr. St. John is coming into town to sign the revised retainer agreement.  He wants to meet with Harvey and Mike about the case in the afternoon, and then we’re all having dinner at _Galen’s_.  If you have other plans, cancel them.”

As they filed out of her office, Louis grinned and dropped a hand on Mike’s shoulder, giving him a vigorous shake.  Harvey heard him whisper something to him about being his pony.  He would have laughed and mocked Louis about inappropriate work behavior, but he saw the quickly suppressed flash of anger in Mike’s eyes, and the way he bit down on his lip and jerked away from Louis.  Laughing a little too loudly, Louis slapped him on the back.  “I knew I could count on you, Michael.”

Suddenly, Mike whipped around and glared at Louis with something like hatred.  “Don’t call me that,” he grated.  “It’s Mike.  My name is Mike.  Not Michael.  Mike.  You go that?  Are we clear?”

Louis stiffened and held his hands out in a warding gesture.  “Whoa.  Settle down, Cujo.  No need to get all bent out of shape over nothing.”  He turned and brushed past Harvey in an apparent rush to get away, curling his lip and muttering at Harvey, “Mean drunk…who knew?”

And then Harvey and Mike were alone.  After his brief, inexplicable outburst, Mike stared once more at the far wall, refusing to make eye contact.

“So, big day, huh?” Harvey said.

Mike nodded tightly, shot a look at Harvey and then fixed his gaze on the carpet.  “Sorry about the Kerwin files.  I told Louis I needed to finish your work.  He wouldn’t take no for answer.  Guess I better get to it.”  He gestured vaguely in the direction of his desk, but seemed rooted to the spot.

Not sure if he should be more annoyed at Louis or Mike, or at himself for paying more than passing attention to his associate’s odd state of mind, he frowned, jerked his head in the direction of his office and started walking.  “Come on.  Let’s talk for a minute.”

It was a few seconds before he heard Mike’s hesitant steps behind him.  Inside his office, he dropped into his chair and leaned back, watching Mike pause at the door, mouth doing that twitchy pursing thing it did sometimes when he was thinking too hard.

“Close the door and have a seat.”

Mike shut the door, but instead of sitting, he gave the couch an almost hostile glance and wandered over to the window, presenting his profile to Harvey.  The reflection in the glass showed a blurred version of Mike’s troubled scowl.

Harvey let the silence last for a minute or so before speaking.  “Lunch with Sandor St. John.  Must have been quite a thrill.”

A noncommittal grunt was the only answer.

“What did you do?  Play a couple of rounds of golf after dessert?”

A flick of blue eyes in his direction.  “What?”

“I just couldn’t help noticing you were gone for nearly six hours.  Either that was one hell of a lunch, or you two did some serious guy bonding.”

Mike turned partway towards Harvey, hands thrust in his pants pockets.  “The ride was nearly an hour each way.”

“Ride?”

“Helicopter.”

“Huh.”  Harvey watched a muscle in Mike’s cheek twitch.  The kid was pissed off about something, he decided.  Or maybe at someone.  “I have to say, something doesn’t add up here.  I just can’t see Louis passing up lunch at – where did you say it was?”

“I didn’t.  But it was in the Hamptons.  On… _his_ humongous estate.”

“Okay.  I can’t see Louis passing up lunch with Sandor St. John on his humongous estate in the Hamptons and sending you there on your own, unless he had some underhanded reason.”

Mike’s face went blank.  He turned back towards the window, biting his lip and saying nothing.

“What did he put you up to?”

Mike’s hands clenched into fists and then slowly relaxed.  “Nothing.”

Harvey leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on the desk, eyes narrowing as he watched Mike try unsuccessfully not to fidget.

“Look, this is all starting to smell a little like the Tom Keller thing.  This isn’t a replay of that, is it?”

“No!  Harvey – ”

“A six hour lunch with a man like St. John…like I said, it doesn’t add up.”  He hesitated.  “Do I need to have you drug-tested?”

The sharp hurt and denial in Mike’s eyes vanished so quickly Harvey couldn’t be sure he had seen them.  “Sure,” Mike said slowly, almost too casually.  “Why don’t you do that?”

“How about we do this instead?  You look me in the eye right now and tell me you didn’t get high today.”

“Harvey – ”

“Look me in the eye, say the words, and the subject is closed.”

After the slightest of pauses, Mike stalked to the edge of Harvey’s desk, rested his hands on it and leaned forward, blue eyes stormy.  “I didn’t get high today.  I don’t do that anymore.  I made you a promise and I meant it.  And today I had lunch and…”  He faltered for a second, stepping back from the desk and fiddling with his cuffs.  “I did what I had to do sign a client.  End of story.”

 _End of story._

If Harvey hadn’t been so exhausted from his trip, he might have pushed Mike further.  His gut told him that some unnamed emotion had the kid all twisted up.  Harvey studied him intently, reminding himself that his responsibility for his young associate only went so far.  If there was something he needed to know, he would figure it out eventually.  He always did.  Right now, though, he needed to focus on other things.

He waved one hand at Mike in a shooing gesture.  “All right.  Grant, or Gary or whatever is name is….”

“Gregory?”

“Yeah.  Probably.  I’ve got him looking through the Kerwin files.  Why don’t you finish up for him?  I’m sure you can finish a hell of a lot faster than he can.  He’ll tell you what we’re looking for.  Then go home.  You look like you could use some sleep.”

Again, that odd little pause, as if Mike wanted to speak, as if a torrent of words pressed against his lips, waiting to be unleashed, but something constrained him.  He gave a jerky nod and headed for the door.

“Hey, rookie,” Harvey said softly.  “Nice job signing St. John.”

Mike turned his head, face wiped carefully of any emotion, nodded, and then disappeared down the hallway.

“What the hell is going on with you, kid?” Harvey whispered to the empty room.


	3. Chapter 3

Mike detoured to the men’s room on the way to his cubicle. St. John had let him shower before he left, but after the meeting in Jessica’s office and his conversation with Harvey, he had begun to feel queasy and grimy again. He splashed cold water over his face, patted it dry and stared at himself in the mirror. He knew that if he were to loosen his tie and undo the top button or two of his shirt, St. John’s teeth marks would stand out like garish little billboards, advertising the way in which he had spent his afternoon. If his cuffs rode up just a little, the bruising around his wrists would give him away. He took a few deep breaths and steeled himself to attack the work waiting for him at his desk.

 _Focus now. Freak out later._

Taking a final look at himself in the mirror, he tried to rearrange his features into something approaching normal, and then headed to his desk.

***

“It was supposed to be me, you know.”

Startled, Mike looked up from the annual performance evaluation for one of Kerwin’s payroll clerks that he had been staring at for the last ten minutes. Gregory leaned against the side of Mike’s cubicle, staring down the hallway in first one direction and then the other, as if afraid of being overheard. Mike sighed and tossed the file folder on his desk, doing a little shimmy with his back to relieve the tightness there, but setting off a whole chain reaction of aches in other places that he refused to think about.

 _Not yet. Not yet._

He had no desire to speak to Gregory or anyone else, but the other associate appeared to be waiting for a response – or more accurately, a reaction – from Mike. “What was supposed to be you?” he asked, rubbing an index finger over one closed eye in a vain attempt to ease the dry, gritty feeling.

Gregory finally turned to face him, bending at the waist to bring his face closer to Mike’s. “Louis promised to take me to his next client meeting. But at the last minute he insisted it had to be you.” He snorted and pulled back slightly. “Shit, Ross, how do you do it? You have got to be the luckiest son of a bitch in Manhattan.”

Mike laughed, a weak sickly noise. “Yeah, that’s me. Lucky.”

Gregory leaned forward again and lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. “Tell me the truth, though. What did you have to do to convince St. John to sign _on the dotted line_?”

 _‘That’s it, Michael. Swallow it all down, every drop. That’s my good boy. Now take your pants down. No…leave the shirt and tie for now. Up on the bed. Hold on tight and don’t move or I’ll have to put the cuffs back on. Knees, Michael. Spread for me. Wider. I’m going to play with you for a while until I’ve recovered from your wonderfully clever mouth. You are not to come, though. Understand? Good boy. Now, have you ever had one of these inside you before….?”_

Mike shrugged. “We ate lunch. We talked. That’s about it.”

“I don’t buy it.” Gregory regarded him through narrowed eyes. “I bet you offered to suck his dick. I know I would have.”

“Dude,” said Mike, trying to sound affronted. The word came out as a surprised squeak, and he could feel the dull flush that swept over his face and neck. “That’s just…I’ve got work to do.”

He made a flustered grab for the discarded performance evaluation, only to have the file folder slip from his damp palm and flutter to the carpet. As he bent down, struggling to collect the loose pages, he heard Gregory’s mocking laughter. Thankfully, however, it grew fainter as he moved away down the hallway, presumably toward the elevator and home.

Mike wished he could do the same, but he had nearly a full box of documents still to sift through. He had already decided that if he didn’t find what Harvey needed, he would review the one box that Gregory had managed to complete. He knew that like most of the Harvard associates, Gregory was competent enough, but he wouldn’t put it past him to purposely ignore a key piece of evidence in a spiteful stab at revenge.

***

Just before midnight, as he was struggling to keep his eyes open, Mike discovered a copy of an internal email from Kerwin’s Director of Personnel, sent to the Chief Financial Officer and regarding the CFO’s administrative assistant, Jill Fairfax. After six years of impeccable evaluations and generous salary increases, Ms. Fairfax had been abruptly terminated just weeks after the CFO, one Bentley Steckle, had requested and been granted her transfer to his department.

Mike rapidly reviewed the records for other finance department personnel and discovered a disproportionate number of demotions, verbal and written warnings, dismal evaluations, terminations and resignations. Chances seemed good that one of those maligned employees had been behind the leak of Kerwin’s true financial position, which had in turn torpedoed the merger, caused their stock to take a nosedive, and led to the ugly lawsuit for which Harvey had been taking depositions in Seattle.

While sympathetic with the employees who had likely been the target of Steckle’s petty retaliation, Mike dutifully noted all of their names for Harvey, composed a quick email detailing what he had discovered, and then let out a long, shuddering breath as he finally allowed himself to acknowledge the headache throbbing sharply behind one eye, and the down-to-his-marrow weariness that had him calling for a cab rather than risk riding his bike home. He should probably be hungry, since he had eaten nothing since lunch, but just the thought of food made his stomach churn nervously. He shut down his computer, draped his messenger bag over his shoulder and headed for the elevator.

S*S*S*S*S*S

The television glowed and flickered in Mike’s dark apartment, light ebbing and flowing with the plot of an episode of _Law and Order_ which he couldn’t focus on long enough to have it make any sense. He’d managed to stave off most of his recollections of the day up until the moment he unlocked his door and stepped into his living room. Then the memories and images of his afternoon with St. John tore free and played through his mind, clearer and more immediate than what was on the television.

***

_It took St. John what seemed like hours to grow tired of maneuvering the vibrator inside of Mike and making him squirm, chuckling every time he angled it just so and sent a zing up Mike’s spine that had him gasping and sweating with the need to come. In reality, it had probably only been about half an hour before Mike began to curse and plead with him. When he finally let go of the headboard and mad an abortive grab for the base of his cock, St. John slapped his hand away, flipped him onto his back, and shackled his wrists to the bed once again. Then he snapped on a cock ring, turned the vibrator up one setting, and carefully stripped off his own remaining clothes before fixing himself a drink and settling into a plush armchair across the room to watch Mike jerk and pull against the cuffs._

 _‘You fucking bastard,’ Mike gasped. St. John’s face was lost in shadow, but his hand idly stroking himself was clearly visible. Every so often he raised his other hand to take a drink to the accompaniment of clinking ice cubes. ‘Shit shit shit,’ Mike groaned. And finally, ‘Please. This is crazy. Oh fuck. Please please please.’_

 _And then St. John was there next to him, removing the hated vibrator, lying half on top of him and biting and sucking his way along Mike’s shoulder and collarbone._

 _‘What do you say, Michael?’ he whispered harshly._

 _‘I – what?’_

 _‘Manners. They’re so important.’ He leaned down and bit Mike’s nipple, quick and sharp. ‘Now, what do you say?’_

 _Mike squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of St. John’s words. His brain felt as if it was filled with sludge. He hurt all over: his wrists and strained shoulders, his battered throat, the hot pulses of pain left by St. John’s teeth, the burn from the vibrator, and the aching, humiliating, throb of his cock._

 _‘Michael? What did your parents teach you? Or maybe it was your Grammy. Magic words. Please and thank you. I’ve heard the first already.’ He raised his voice in a mocking imitation of Mike. ‘Please please please.’ His long finger trailed up the underside of Mike’s cock, causing it to twitch. ‘Show me you’re my good boy.’ He curled his hand around Mike and began to stroke, maddeningly soft and slow._

 _Mike tipped his head back, gritting his teeth. ‘Jesus. What the hell do you want from me?’_

 _The stroking hand stopped, tightening, exerting pressure that drew a gasping whine from Mike._

 _‘All I want is some goddamn common courtesy.’ His face hovered inches from Mike. ‘Please and thank you.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Fine. This is all a bit of a surprise to you. You’re feeling off-balance. I get that. I really do. So I’ll cut you some slack this one time.’ His lips dragged lightly up Mike’s neck to just behind his ear. ‘Thank me, Michael. Say “thank you, Sir.” S_ ay the fucking words _!’_

 _Mike jumped as St. John’s voice suddenly boomed in his ear. His heart thudded in alarm and he jerked uselessly at his bonds. Gleaming hazel eyes bored into him, wild and full of threats. The words stuck in his throat, but he forced them out, face flaming. ‘Thank you. Thank you, Sir.’_

 _***_

By two a.m. Mike just wanted to sleep, to shut off his mind for a few damn hours. He rooted around in his cupboards until he found the two-thirds full bottle of tequila that Trevor had left after another long ago argument had interrupted their plans to drink themselves senseless. Clutching the bottle, he shuffled back to the couch and slumped down, raised the bottle in a silent toast to Trevor, and took a drink, grimacing at the vile taste of the cheap brand. The next gulp went down more easily, and by the time the bottle was one third full, a pleasant haze filled his mind. With exaggerated care, he set the bottle on the floor and settled onto his side to escape into unconsciousness.

***

The alarm on Mike’s cell phone shrilled its bouncy wake-up tune for the third time. Tempted as he was to set the snooze once more (or twice or ten times), he unplastered himself from his couch, twisting his neck to work out the spasm of pain caused by his awkward sleep angle. Too bright morning sun knifed through the gaps in his closed blinds.

He silently lectured his limbs to move, to lift him from the couch and propel him into the day. They didn’t seem inclined to listen to him, so he sat, paralyzed by dread, staring at the far wall with dull eyes, using all of his meager energy to block the memories which had come slamming back as soon as he opened his eyes, and which wouldn’t leave him in peace. He wasn’t sure how long he spent in this state of hazy, jangling nerves, but when his phone chimed to announce an incoming text message, he groaned out loud to realize it was already 8:30.

The text was from Harvey: ‘ _Ray downstairs in 10. Do not make him wait.’_

As he stumbled around his apartment dragging on his clothes and wishing he had time for coffee, Mike tried to buoy himself with the knowledge that at least he wouldn’t have to face St. John again until the following day.

***

He did, however, have to face Harvey, who fixed him with a flat stare when Mike hurried into his office a little after 9:00.

“One new client doesn’t change your status around here, kid. You still have to show up on time and put in the hours.”

“I know and I’m sorry – ”

“Save it.” Harvey watched him for a half a minute, his expression unreadable and shifted one shoulder in what might have been a shrug. “Good work on the Kerwin matter, by the way. Turns out Steckle is a grade A asshole. He’s getting axed, probably as we speak. And the lawsuit is going away. There is still the matter of a whole slew of disgruntled current and ex-employees to be dealt with, but Jessica wants Bill Salish to take that on.”

“Bill Salish?”

“Yeah, Mike. Salish. Our top-rated employment law attorney? You know, you really should take some time to acquaint yourself with the major players at the firm. Other than me, of course.” He smiled thinly.

Mike tried to dredge up a clever rejoinder to Harvey’s sniping, but his synapses weren’t firing with their usual efficiency, so he just nodded in agreement. Still, there was something comforting about Harvey’s biting remarks. They made him feel almost normal and as if he would like to spend all day in here being scolded by Harvey rather than return to his desk to face his own dark thoughts. Unfortunately, Harvey had other plans for him.

“Why are you still here?” asked Harvey.

“I…what’s on the agenda for today, then?”

“I want you to spend a little time – no more than an hour or two – digging up whatever you can about the lawsuit against St. John Industries. If you come across anything interesting, send me an email. After you’re done with that, report to Louis and see what he has for you.”

Mike tensed. “Louis? I’d rather – I mean, isn’t there something I can help _you_ with?”

Harvey’s wide mouth clenched in disapproval. “Unloading this Kerwin thing is a reprieve. We have a little breathing space until tomorrow, and I intend to get caught up on other pending matters, none of which require your hovering. So…go. Shoo.” He waved his hand at the door as if flicking Mike into the hallway.

He passed Donna on his way out. She had begun to thaw towards him lately, but judging from the scowl she threw in his direction, he was apparently back on her shit list. _Toasted by Jessica one day and back to being Harvey’s perpetual fuckup the next._ If his heart hadn’t felt like an anvil sitting inside his chest, he might have laughed at how ridiculous his life was sometimes.

***

Three hours later, Mike stood in the doorway to Louis’ office. He had hoped that Louis would be at lunch somewhere out of the office. Instead, he sat behind his desk, a container of soup and a sandwich at his elbow, and his head bent over a stack of paperwork which he continued to read intently even after Mike cleared his throat and rapped on the doorframe.

“Louis?” Mike couldn’t stop annoyance and outright belligerence from bleeding into his voice.

Louis held up a finger while he deliberately finished proofing the page in front of him. Mike shifted impatiently.

“Louis.”

“Wait.” After perhaps another full minute, Louis turned the page face down on the completed pile and looked up at Mike expectantly. “Yes? What is it?”

If Louis hadn’t sounded so arrogant and condescending Mike could have simply asked for his assignment and left. In fact, most days the arrogance and condescension would have rolled off his back as par for the course at the top shelf law firm. However, suspecting as he did that Louis had been somehow complicit in throwing him at St. John, he wasn’t in the mood to be forgiving. Perhaps Louis hadn’t known exactly what St. John had in store for Mike, hadn’t guessed the depth of corruption in the man’s heart, but he had set Mike up, sent him off alone with the instruction to “be accommodating.” So after a slight pause to consider the wisdom of what he was about to do, Mike entered Louis’ office and shut the door behind him.

“Louis, why…” he began, but the rest of the question stuck in his throat. St. John had told him he couldn’t talk about what had happened or he would act on all of his threats against Mike and his grandmother. He rubbed his fingers against his hairline, trying to soothe away the beginnings of another headache behind his left eye.

Louis eyed him for a moment and then pulled his soup closer and pried off the lid, running his plastic spoon through it, circling and zigzagging in what was probably an attempt to appear nonchalant and unconcerned but instead only highlighted his tension. He pursed his lips and flicked a wary glance at Mike. “Well? Finish your thought. Why what?”

“St. John.” Mike’s tongue stumbled over the name and his stomach performed a queasy roll. He swallowed and tried again. “St. John said he asked for me. For me specifically. Why? I mean, he just called you up out of the blue and invited us – me – over for lunch?” Mike wasn’t sure why he was pushing the issue with Louis, especially with the risks involved. Maybe if he had more information he could navigate his way out of this mess.

Louis tapped what looked like clam chowder off the end of the spoon and laid it across the top the soup container. “Something like that.” He had the same shifty look on his face that Mike remembered from the limo ride yesterday.

Mike crossed his arms across his chest but his cuffs rode up and he dropped them back to his sides. He thought he had been quick enough to cover the marks left on his wrists by St. John. Louis made an abrupt choking sound before coughing noisily, as if he had swallowed something the wrong way. Panicking, afraid Louis had seen too much, had made a deduction Mike never intended, he nodded, head bobbing stupidly while he curved his lips up in what he hoped passed for a smile. “That answers that, then.”

Louis sipped from the glass of water on his desk and brought his cough under control. He looked pale. “Mike, I hope – ”

Mike cut him off, feeling a little desperate. “No. It’s okay. Makes sense.” Realizing he was still nodding like an idiot bobble head, he forced himself to stillness. “Just wondering. Just curious.” Louis kept trying to interrupt him, so Mike continued to talk over him. “Not that is matters. Great opportunity and all that. But it’s not important…not the reason I came in here. I need some work. What I mean is, Harvey sent me here to see what you might need help with this afternoon. So. I’m at your disposal. Feel free to use me.” He cut himself off, wincing and feeling himself go red at his choice of words. Louis had stopped talking and now stared at Mike with his brows lowered.

“Hmm.” Louis reached for the soup spoon again, seemed to think better of it and picked up a paper napkin to wipe his fingers. “Thank you, Mike. That’s very….”

 _Accomodating?_ Mike had to bite his lip to keep the hysterical laugh from bubbling out of his throat.

“…very unexpected of Harvey,” Louis muttered, mouth distorting into a thoughtful pucker which morphed almost seamlessly into the sourest smile Mike had ever seen. “Fine. Good. Go see Harold in the workroom on forty-one. I’m certain he would welcome some help proofing briefs.”

Mike nodded, grateful that he hadn’t been stuck with Gregory. Harold wasn’t so bad. Harold he could deal with. He turned for the door but paused with his hand on the brass handle when Louis spoke again.

“Mike.” He cleared his throat and continued, oddly tentative. “You really impressed the hell out of Jessica yesterday. And sure…me too. I never expected you to take it so far. Mr. St. John evidently appreciated your efforts, so, you know…kudos. Your loyalty to the firm is duly noted and I won’t forget it.”

Shit. Louis knew. He _knew._ Or at least he had guessed enough to jeopardize Mike’s agreement with St. John. He swiveled his head partway over his shoulder, not enough to make eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gathering courage, he turned the rest of the way and faced Louis squarely. “And whatever it is you’re implying, I’m sure it goes without saying that you won’t repeat it. Not to anyone. Understood?” _Especially not Harvey, please God._

Louis looked as if he wanted to say more, but after meeting Mike’s pleading stare with an intense glare of his own, he gave a tight nod and turned ostentatiously back to the remaining documents on his desk. “Go find Harold.” His tone was flat, but vibrated with an undercurrent of some emotion which, had it been anyone but Louis, Mike might have labeled as regret.

***

Harold acted absurdly grateful to see Mike, particularly after he heard that he had been sent to help proof the avalanche of documents still being churned out by the printer in the workroom.

“Pull up a highlighter and make yourself comfortable,” he grinned. “There’s Red Bull in the break room down the hall. I ordered a pizza. Should be here any second. You can have half. Wow. You look beat. Long night, huh? I hope you didn’t spend it here. Gotta have a life sometimes, right? That’s the next box, right by your foot, and then they continue in order on that shelf over there. Good times, am I right?” He gave a silly sounding laugh.

A spasm of pain filled Mike’s chest at how happy and innocent Harold seemed. He had to be right around Mike’s age, but suddenly Mike felt as if he had aged decades overnight. He tried to smile in response to Harold’s mindless rambling. Awareness of Mike’s dark mood must have finally penetrated his giddy good humor as he finally wound down, reinserted his ear buds, gave Mike a cheerful smile and threw himself back into proofreading, head moving occasionally to whatever music played in his ears.

Mike grabbed a couple of Red Bull’s out of the refrigerator in the break room, refused the offer of pizza when it arrived, and attempted to lose himself in the work. Every now and then he glanced up at Harold’s guileless face, his baby-soft blond hair, and a thought began to eat away at him. What if it had been Harold that St. John had picked out on the Pearson Hardman website? St. John had confessed a fascination with Mike’s youthful appearance. If that was his only criteria, Harold could have easily fit the bill. The idea of someone like Harold enduring what Mike had yesterday and into the foreseeable future…it surprised him to discover that he found the thought even more disturbing than his own predicament.

And what did that say about him? He didn’t want to think about that, just as he didn’t want to think about tomorrow and seeing St. John again. He could scarcely imagine sitting in the same room with him and acting normal, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred between them. It didn’t ease his worry any to know that this was part of the thrill for St. John, part of the torment he delighted in inflicting.

All of these thoughts buzzed around in Mike’s head, fueled by a combination of Red Bull and lack of food. Finally, however, even the energy drink wasn’t enough to combat his weariness. His eyes began to flutter shut and although for a while he managed to catch himself just short of dozing off, eventually the lure of sleep became too strong and between one word and the next on the document he was reviewing, he slid into sleep.

***

_He was bound to the bed, this time at both his wrists and ankles. His white shirt was unbuttoned, wrinkled and damp with perspiration, and his tie had been loosened but still hung around his neck. A glance lower showed that he wore nothing else. His cock stood at traitorous attention, hard and flushed, and his hands itched to rub and stroke and bring himself relief. The room was quiet except for his own harsh breathing._

 _‘Hello?’ His voice seemed to echo in the huge room. There was no response and panic began to rise in his chest, making it hard to breathe. The floor creaked somewhere out of his line of vision. He arched up off the bed, twisting his head in an attempt to see who was there._

 _‘Mr. St. John? Sir? I need to get back to work. I’ve done everything you asked. You have to let me up.’_

 _‘Or what, Rookie?’_

 _Mike squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head in confusion. That wasn’t right. The only person who called him that was –_

 _‘Harvey?’ he whispered, and his boss walked into his view and sat on the bed next to him, dressed in one of his expense suits, looking impeccable as always._

 _‘Well, for fuck’s sake, Mike, what have you gotten yourself into this time?’ He shook his head, disappointment clear in his brown eyes._

 _‘I’m sorry, Harvey. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’_

 _***_

Mike jerked awake, straightening from the table, grabbing for a half full can of Red Bull before it spilled across the worktable, and detaching a page which had stuck to his face, probably from his own drool. A memory of his voice from the dream seemed to echo in his head, but a glance across the table showed Harold still concentrating on the work in front of him, ear buds firmly in place. He must have sensed Mike’s gaze on him because he looked over and pulled out one ear bud.

Mike smiled weakly. “Guess I dozed off. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. Yesterday I crawled into that corner back there and slept for an hour. No one ever comes down here except the copy clerks. Anyway, Louis said I could go home at seven and pick this up again in the morning. I’m sure that applies to you too.”

“Huh. Good. That’s good.” Mike glanced at his watch, surprised to see that it was already six-thirty. How long had he slept? His stomach growled and he realized that for the first time since lunch yesterday he felt like he could eat something and keep it down. He took a deep breath and dove back into the work, determined to finish as much as possible before seven, go home, eat a good dinner, and get a decent night’s sleep, even if it meant taking one of his last Ambien tablets.

Somehow he had to get back on an even keel before he faced St. John tomorrow. Even though Louis apparently knew more than made Mike comfortable, he still couldn’t afford to let anything slip in front of Harvey or Jessica.

 _I can do this,_ he told himself. _Whatever it takes, I have to pull this off._


	4. Chapter 4

Fully an hour after he was due for their meeting, Sandor St. John arrived at Harvey’s office door, escorted by a serious and subdued Mike.  Pushing aside his annoyance, Harvey rose to greet his new client.  His first impression was of an attractive, highly polished man several years older than himself.  His dark navy Brioni suit hung perfectly from wide shoulders.  Expertly styled dark blond hair tipped with sunny highlights framed high cheekbones, a long, thin nose and a strongly molded mouth which smiled easily as they shook hands.

Harvey had read enough articles and heard enough stories about St. John’s legendary confidence and ego, but none of that prepared him for the experience of meeting him in person.  His personality seemed to fill up the room, stealing oxygen from the other occupants and drawing attention to him as if a bright spotlight remained trained on him at all times.

Harvey disliked him immediately.

He refused to acknowledge that his dislike had anything to do with the sight of St. John’s hand resting almost casually on Mike’s shoulder, as if he had the right to touch him so familiarly.  Mike seemed to have gone temporarily mute, wearing a curiously blank expression and refusing to meet Harvey’s eye.  Making a mental note to lecture Mike when they were alone about how to conduct himself in front of a client, Harvey smiled at St. John and gestured at the couch.

“Have a seat,” he said.

St. John ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken, and moved instead to the window, drawing Mike along with him.

“Spectacular,” murmured St. John, taking in the view.  “Maybe someday you’ll have an office like this, Michael.”

Something twitched in Harvey’s gut at the way St. John spoke Mike’s full name.  He couldn’t keep his attention away from St. John’s lingering hand, and he wondered idly why he found the sight so jarring, why something in his mind growled, _wrong_ , and _mine,_ every time he saw the long fingers tighten on Mike’s shoulder.

Instinct warned him to keep a careful eye on St. John, as if he were a dangerous predator who had entered his territory.  He shoved that feeling into the background as much as he was able, and when St. John turned to face him, still smiling, he curved his mouth into what he hoped was a convincing answering smile and did his best to infuse some warmth into his eyes.  Judging by the slight narrowing of St. John’s eyes, Harvey suspected he hadn’t succeeded.  His mouth tensed in irritation at the unfamiliar sensation of finding himself so off-balance within seconds of a first meeting.

“If we could get started?” he said.

“Of course.  Of course.”  St. John strode toward the couch as if he owned the entire building.  His hand now rested on the small of Mike’s back, propelling him forward.  He seated himself with the grace of a large, lazy cat and cast a warm look up at Mike, who stood at his knee, everything about his body language radiating tension.  “Sit, Michael.”

As if his strings had been cut, Mike dropped onto the couch and perched on the edge of the seat, leaving a wide space between himself and St. John.

Somewhere in the back of Harvey’s head, a tiny alarm belled tolled faintly.  “Mike,” he started, and then paused when wide blue eyes lifted to meet his.  He frowned.  “It occurs to me that I could use a coffee.  Why don’t you go grab some for all of us?”

Mike nodded and started to rise, but St. John’s hand shot out to grab his wrist.  “Tea for me, Michael.  With lemon and honey.  It’s so good for the throat.  So soothing.  You should have the same.”

Giving a jerky nod, Mike waited, seemingly frozen in place, until St. John released him.  He left the office, taking care not to look at Harvey again.  Harvey watched his retreating back.  When he shifted his gaze back to St. John, he saw that the other man had been watching Mike as well.  Their eyes met and after a beat too long, St. John grinned wolfishly.

Harvey sat in the chair across from St. John, crossed his legs and smoothed the crease on his trousers.  “So.  You and Mike seem to have hit it off.”

“He’s a remarkable boy.”

 “You think so?”

“Absolutely.  You must think so as well, or you wouldn’t have taken him on.”

Harvey shrugged, not willing to give anything away.  “He shows promise.”  He leaned forward in his chair.  “But there’s something I just don’t get.  Why would a man like you want to trust a big case like _Cicada v St. John_ to a kid like Mike?”

St. John laughed, long fingers tapping a beat on the arm of the couch.  “Aw, Harvey.  Don’t be jealous.  I did ask for you as well.  You’re the seasoned warrior, after all, the man anyone would want in their corner.  Michael, though….He’s so young and fresh.  Mmm.  I like that, and I’m looking forward to cultivating a close relationship with him.”  He tilted his head to the side, regarding Harvey through amused hazel eyes.  “I know we’ve just met, but believe me when I tell you I’ve researched you thoroughly.  Both of you.”

Harvey didn’t care for the sharp, _knowing_ look that St. was giving him, but he kept quiet, waiting for whatever else the man had to say.

“I like you Harvey.  Honestly, I didn’t think I would, but I have to say, you surprised me.  You remind me a little of myself.  A little younger, a little less ruthless.”

Harvey couldn’t help it.  He snorted in amusement and shook his head, smiling.  “I thought you said you’d researched me thoroughly.”

St. John stilled, smile firmly in place, eyes dark and feral.  “You have no idea,” he breathed and then abruptly straightened and angled his tall body across the coffee table.  “But, Harvey, I think that between the two of us, we could train Michael up rather well.  Really make something out of him.  Don’t you agree?”

Harvey found St. John’s enthusiasm repellant, and something about his choice of words had those alarm bells ringing a little bit louder.  He kept all of that off of his face, however.  “I think you should focus on your company and this lawsuit, and I’ll worry about my associate.”  He stressed the word “my” and was surprised by how right that felt.  Mike was _his_.

St. John turned suddenly to the door, a smile lighting his face.  Harvey followed his gaze to see Mike juggling three ceramic mugs with the Pearson Hardman logo stamped on the side.

“Michael,” said St. John, standing with smooth grace, “let me help you with those.”

Harvey watched as St. John reached for one of the mugs and Mike flinched away from his touch.  St. John attempted to pull it from his grasp but Mike let go too quickly and hot liquid splashed between them, most of it landing on St. John’s Brioni suit.

“Oh, wow.  Oh, shit.”  Mike stood, wide-eyed, appearing mortified as he gaped at St. John and the spreading stain on his suit jacket.  “I’m – I’m so sorry.”  He hurriedly transferred the three mugs to the coffee table and began making ineffectual swipes at the fine wool with his bare hands.

Without thinking, Harvey had risen to his feet.  “Mike,” he said, softly but firmly.  Mike continued trying to brush away tea that had already soaked into the cloth, and St. John loomed over him radiating anger that seemed far too intense for the simple mistake.  “ _Mike_.”  He added bite to his voice and finally got Mike’s attention.  Panicked blue eyes focused on Harvey and his hands finally stilled.  “You’re not helping,” Harvey pointed out.  “Let me see if Donna has – ”

That’s as far as he got before Donna appeared in the doorway carrying a hand towel.

“Reading my mind again?” he murmured, holding out his hand.

She ignored him.  “I’ve got this.”  Moving past him, she pushed Mike gently out of the way and began dabbing at St. John’s lapel.

It was all Harvey could do not to laugh at the bemused look on St. John’s face as he stared at the top of Donna’s head.  “Have you met my assistant?” asked Harvey.  “This is Donna.  Donna, this is Sandor St. John.”

Donna favored him with her _no shit, Sherlock_ face and then addressed St. John.  “I can get this out for you before it sets, but I need to take the jacket with me.”  She took a step back and waited expectantly.

St. John hesitated, as if deciding how gracious he wanted to be, and then he held out his arms.  “Michael?”

As Mike sprang forward to help St. John out of his jacket, Donna caught Harvey’s eye to give him a questioning look.  He didn’t know how to respond, just tightened his mouth, not at all liking the way Mike seemed to react to St. John’s orders.

Donna took the jacket from Mike.  “I’ll bring it back as good as new,” she promised, giving Mike a comforting pat on his shoulder.

“Well.  Crisis averted,” Harvey said sardonically.  “Maybe we can get down to business now.”

They retook their seats.  Harvey tossed a legal pad to Mike with the terse instruction to, “take notes, rookie,” and they began to discuss the lawsuit in earnest.

As he grilled St. John, firing rapid-fire questions at him, he kept half an eye on Mike.  He seemed to have regained some of his equilibrium, asking questions of his own and jotting copious notes, but he held himself too rigidly and the usual spark had gone out of him.  Harvey knew he was missing something, that he likely had all of the clues in front of him already, but he couldn’t afford to divert his attention from the facts of the case to figure it out.  He’d have more leisure at dinner to study Mike and determine what had him so jittery.  He glanced between Mike and St. John. 

 _Or who_.

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

“Mike?  _Mike._ ”

He blinked, looking around in confusion.  Harvey and St. John were standing, both of them staring down at him.

“Uh.”  He jerked to his feet.  “That’s it then?  We’re done?”

“No,” said Harvey, drawing the word out in such a way as to make clear to Mike that he had said something moronic.  “This is just the beginning.  We’ve got weeks ahead of us of research, gathering evidence, taking depositions, rounding up expert witnesses.  So get out a big black marker and cross out everything on your social calendar because you’re going to be all but living here for the foreseeable future.”

St. John laughed, and Mike darted a quick glance in his direction before fixing his gaze on the carpet.  Let Harvey think he had suddenly turned into some socially awkward idiot.  He simply couldn’t stand to look at St. John and his smug face.  Just being this close to him made his skin crawl, made him remember too vividly the feel of St. John’s hand on his head, and the soft rasp of his voice like ice along his spine.

 _My very own pet attorney._

Too late, he realized they were both waiting for him to respond.  “Duly noted,” he muttered and gave Harvey a tight-lipped smile.  “Then I should probably….research…”  He made a vague gesture towards the hallway.

Harvey looked at his watch.  “Our reservations aren’t for about another hour.  Sandor, why don’t I take you down to meet Jessica?”

Another smile from St. John.  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to get to know her at dinner.  Right now, I desperately need to answer some emails.  Can’t stay out of contact for too long or people will start to think the company can run without me.  Is there a spare office I could borrow for a while?”

Mike watched with interest the subtle signs of irritation flicker across Harvey’s features.  “Let me check,” he said, and moved to the door, leaning out to confer with Donna.  A moment later, she followed him through the door, carrying St. John’s suit jacket.

She handed the jacket to St. John.  “Good as new, as promised.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect,” he said without bothering to look at the fabric.

“So am I,” she purred back.  “There’s an empty office down on the forty-first floor.  I can show you where it is.”

Mike was proud of himself for not jumping this time when St. John’s hand landed on his shoulder.  “That’s not necessary.  My boy can take me there.  Can’t you, Michael?”

He froze, certain he was bright red.  _My boy?_   He wanted to disappear through the floor.  How obvious could the man be?

A covert glance at Harvey showed only the same irritated frown as before.  Donna appeared amused, nothing out of the ordinary for her.  “Sure,” said Mike through only slightly gritted teeth and took a step towards the door, slipping free of St. John’s hand.

“Wait,” said Harvey.  “Let’s meet in the lobby at quarter to seven.  Ray can pick us up.”

The hated hand found his shoulder again, squeezing a little too hard.  “Nonsense,” said St. John.  “I’d be happy to give Michael a ride to the restaurant.”

“Super,” came Harvey’s sarcastic dismissal from behind him, and then they were heading to the elevators, Mike walking too fast in a pointless effort to outrace St. John’s touch and his towering presence behind him.

 

***

 

The office Donna had found for St. John lay down the hall from the workroom in which Mike had spent the last day and a half with Harold.  He caught a glimpse of his blond co-worker as they passed, and then they turned a corner, took a right into a small alcove created by the angles of the building, and found the office tucked into a private corner.  It was probably used by visiting attorneys or possibly temporary paralegals, but right now it appeared not to be assigned to anyone as there were no personal items visible, just a large wooden desk, three chairs and a matching credenza with a small printer.

“Lovely,” was St. John’s only comment, rendered in a dismissive tone of voice.  He removed his laptop from its case and began setting it up on the desk.

“So…”  Mike edged towards the door.  “I’ll just…”

“Lock the door, Michael.”

Speechless, he stared at St. John, shocked by the implications of the softly spoken order.

“Michael?”  He took a seat in the chair behind the desk, sparing Mike only a quick glance as he turned on his computer.  “If I have to tell you again, I promise you won’t like the consequences.”

Mike struggled to swallow, his mouth having gone suddenly dry.  “I – but – this is where I work.  You can’t expect – ”

“Of course I can.  We had a deal, didn’t we?  Anytime.  Anywhere.”

“But there are windows by the door!  Someone could see us.  _Fuck._   If we get found out like this, that’s out of my control.  It’s not on me.”  He started to tremble and silently cursed his weakness.

“Hm.  A valid point.  Still, lock the doors and come here.”  He waited.  “Now, Michael.”

He wanted to tell him to fuck off, to open the door and leave, but he knew he that wasn’t an option, so he reached out his hand, turned the deadbolt and walked numbly to the desk.  “How do you want me?” he asked, striving, for the sake of retaining at least a crumb of dignity, to keep his voice level and matter-of-fact.

St. John swiveled to face him, holding his wrist and leaning back slightly to gaze up at Mike through hooded eyes.  “Mm.  Let me count the ways.  You’re right, though.  I wouldn’t want to have to terminate our arrangement before I’m ready.”  He gave Mike’s wrist a sharp tug.  “So let’s have you down here, on your knees under this nice roomy desk where no one can see you.”

A resigned sigh gusted out of Mike.  “Sure.  Whatever.”  He folded himself up and crawled clumsily underneath the desk, managing to bang his head only once on the underside.  “ _Ow_.”

“You okay down there?  Good.  Get comfortable because you’re going to be there for a while.  Remove your jacket.  Loosen your tie a little.  Undo your top button and roll up your sleeves.  Perfect.  Now unzip me and take me in that delicious mouth.  Slow down, Michael, you need to make this last.  I have a fair amount of work to do before we leave for dinner.  I want you to suck me nice and gentle and slow.  I’ll let you know when I want to come.  And after we’re done, I’d better not find a single drop on my suit.  Any questions?  Good boy.  Now begin.”

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

Harvey checked his watch again.  Across from him, Jessica appeared serene as always as she sipped her martini.  Louis, on the other hand was as twitchy as a hyperactive two-year-old.

“They’re late,” Louis repeated for the fourth time.  “You gave them the right address?  The right restaurant?  The right time?”

“Louis…” warned Jessica, and pressed her lips together.

“I’m just asking.  I mean, did you do something?  Did you insult him somehow?  I know how you are, Harvey.  Wait.  Was it Mike?  Shit.  That kid fucked it up somehow, didn’t he?”

Just then, Harvey saw Mike and St. John following the hostess toward their table.  He didn’t say anything, allowing Louis to continue to rant and fume while he studied his associate.  St. John walked next to the attractive hostess, smiling and apparently flirting with her while Mike trailed behind looking worn out, rumpled and out of place in the expensive restaurant.  They reached the table and the next few minutes passed with St. John charming Jessica, Louis fawning and smirking, and Mike hanging back and occasionally rubbing his forehead in a distracted manner.

They took their seats, Mike to Harvey’s left, St. John between Mike and Jessica.  St. John continued to carry on an animated discussion with Jessica while Louis leaned in, making sporadic attempts to inject himself in the conversation.

Mike sat slumped in his seat.  Harvey watched his tongue flick out and run over his chapped lips.  He slid a sideways glance at Harvey and his throat bobbed as he swallowed convulsively.  If Harvey hadn’t been studying him so closely, he probably would have missed the faint red mark darkening into a bruise at Mike’s hairline.

Without stopping to think about what he was doing, he reached out and touched the mark, frowning.  “What did you do to yourself, kid?”

Mike jerked away as if he had been burned.  “Jesus, Harvey,” he hissed, wincing as if his throat hurt.  “Warn a guy, why don’t you?”

Everyone turned to stare at Mike…everyone except St. John.  Harvey met St. John’s gaze over the top of Mike’s head and Harvey, who had always excelled at reading people, read anger, possessiveness, dark warning and barely leashed violence.  All of that came and went in a flash, and then St. John’s smile was back in place, his hand resting lightly on Mike’s back.  Only Harvey could see the long fingers stroking intimate, sensuous circles across Mike’s tense shoulder blade.  In that instant it all made sense.  All the clues came together and added up to one unmistakable conclusion: St. John was fucking Mike.

 _His_ Mike.

He forced himself to smile nonchalantly and spoke to Mike while keeping his gaze on St. John.  “Didn’t mean to startle you.  You look like you’ve hurt your head, and you know I’ve got a vested interest in that big brain of yours.  No permanent damage, I hope?”

“It’s nothing.  I’m fine.” 

Harvey glimpsed a flash of distressed blue eyes before Mike lowered his gaze, too quickly for Harvey to determine the cause of his distress.  Was Mike feeling guilty for his ethical lapse in pursuing a relationship with a client?  Or was something else going on?  Harvey needed to get Mike alone, he decided, without the claustrophic presence of St. John.

The waiter arrived at the table and the moment passed as they began ordering dinner.  After that, the conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, carried mostly by Jessica, Louis and St. John, with Harvey making absent-minded contributions from time to time.  Mike picked at his food and gulped his beer.  He seemed attentive enough, but Harvey suspected he was just as distracted as Harvey.

By the time they finished dessert and Jessica smilingly snatched the bill from St. John’s fingers, Harvey still hadn’t reached any conclusions.  They all paused outside the restaurant to say goodnight.  Jessica and Louis decided to share a cab.  As Jessica snapped her fingers and one appeared to whisk them away, Harvey maneuvered himself in between Mike and St. John.  He touched Mike’s elbow lightly and jerked his head in the direction where he had seen Ray waiting for him in the town car.

“I’ll give you a lift home,” he said.

Mike’s gaze went immediately to St. John and a hot flare of anger blossomed deep in Harvey’s gut.  He moved behind Mike and dug his fingers into his shoulders, eyes clashing with St. John’s.  A growl kept wanting to erupt from his throat but he just smiled, daring the other man to object. 

“Um,” said Mike.  A dull flush reddened his face and ears.  “I think…I mean – ”

“Wow, Mike.  Be sure to draw on that eloquence the next time you’re in front of a judge.”

“Harvey,” St. John scolded, “I already promised to show Mike my place in town.  I’d hate to disappoint him.”  He held out a hand, beckoning Mike.

Harvey tightened his hold.  “Sorry.  Not on a school night.”  He could feel Mike start to struggle, trying to wriggle free, but he wasn’t about to let him get away.

St. John seemed to consider this for a moment, then gave an elegant shrug.  “I’ll be in the car, Michael.  You have five minutes.”  With some signal Harvey missed, St. John summoned his limo and strolled to meet it at the curb.

When they were alone, Mike gave a violent wrench and tried unsuccessfully to pull away.  “Dammit, Harvey.  Let go of me.  I need to go with him.”

 _Need?_   Now that was interesting.  The anger in Harvey’s gut turned cold.  He released his hold on Mike and spun him around.  “I think you’re forgetting who you work for.  You need what I say you need.”

Mike shook his head, shoulders slumping.  “Not this time.”

People walked by on either side of them, swerving to avoid them, some throwing them irritated glares.  Harvey grabbed Mike’s arm again and towed him a feet along the sidewalk into the doorway of a closed shoe store.  He released him but blocked his exit.

“Mike.  Look, I know you’re sleeping with St. John.  Jesus.  Don’t look so shocked.  You’re so easy to read it’s almost comical.  And by the way, you’re going to need to work on that if you hope to get anywhere in this profession.  Rolling your eyes like that is only proving my point.  Now, normally I wouldn’t give a shit whose dick you choose to suck in your off hours.”  _Liar,_ his mind whispered but he ignored the insidious voice and plowed ahead.  “But St. John is our client, and as such he is off limits.  So here’s what’s going to happen: you are going to get in the car with me, Ray is going to drive you home, and you are going to collapse onto your tragic little futon, or wherever it is you rest your head, and get a good night’s sleep so that tomorrow morning you can arrive at work nice and early to give your full attention to said client’s case.  Am I clear?”  His hands itched to grab Mike’s arm and give him a shake to punctuate his speech.  He thrust them into his pockets instead.

“I – yes.  I get everything you’re saying.  It doesn’t change anything.  I can’t go with you.”  Mike leaned against the glass window, arms crossed over his chest.  “Please.  Please just try to understand.”

Harvey exhaled slowly, striving for control.  “The man is obviously a complete douche.  So, no.  I don’t understand.  Come with me now and explain it to me.”  He waited, watching Mike turn partially away, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

“I just…can’t,” he breathed and turned back to face Harvey.  “I’m sorry, Harvey.  I’m sorry.  But I have to go.”

Mike didn’t move, but he seemed to shrivel and draw into himself in front of Harvey.  Watching the expressions that flitted over his face, one following the other, something clicked into place.

“What is it, Mike?” he said, keeping his voice soft.  “What is that bastard holding over you?”

If possible, Mike grew even more still.  “Nothing.  Not a damn thing.”

“I can help you, but you have to trust me.”

Mike finally looked up at him, and for the briefest moment Harvey had the sensation of drowning in those huge blue eyes.

“I do trust you, Harvey.  But there’s nothing you can do.  Not this time.”  He gave a sickly-looking smile.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  He made as if to brush past Harvey, and this time he did grab Mike’s arm, holding him in a punishing grip and ignoring his wince.

“What have I told you before, about what you should do when someone holds a gun to your head?  Come on, kid, access that flawless memory of yours.”

Mike regarded him soberly.  “I remember, Harvey.  I always remember every word you say.  But this time, it’s not just a gun.  It’s…I don’t know.  Bolivia.”

“Bolivia?”

“Butch and Sundance.  And I don’t think it’s going to end well, but I’ve got to try.  I’ve got to make sure no one else gets caught in the crossfire.”

Then he was gone, moving up the sidewalk.  Harvey watched him until he was almost out of sight, watched until the sleek limousine pulled up to the curb next to him and the door swung open and Mike disappeared inside to be whisked away from Harvey and into the night.

“Dammit,” he muttered, rubbing his breastbone absently in an effort to massage away his anger and frustration.  He pivoted on his heel, heading for the town car while he fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed a number by heart.

When Ray opened the door for him, he nodded his thanks before responding to the woman who had answered the phone.  “Vanessa?  I have a job for you.  Can you meet me now?  Great.  See you in ten.”


	5. Chapter 5

First thing the following morning, Harvey paid a visit to Louis. As he passed Mike’s cubicle, he caught a glimpse of his associate’s untidy hair where he had his head bent over a stack of documents. Seeming to sense Harvey, Mike glanced up, a frown creasing the space between his eyebrows. He looked away immediately, mouth pulled down in exaggerated concentration and his shoulders tensing. Harvey stifled the urge to speak and kept walking.

He entered Louis’ office without knocking and let the door swing shut behind him. Louis favored him with a narrow-eyed glare.

“Good morning to you, too,” Louis sneered. “Something I can help you with? Not that I will, you understand. Just being polite.”

Harvey dropped into one of the chairs in front of Louis’ desk and leaned back, regarding the junior partner, his dark gaze unblinking. Predictably, the other man began to twitch and squirm after less than a minute.

“Jesus, Harvey,” Louis spluttered, face twisting in annoyance. “Will you turn the death stare down a notch and tell me what you want?”

Harvey smiled dangerously and kept his voice soft and deliberate. “What I want is for you to explain to me, starting at the beginning and leaving nothing out, how my associate ended up taking a solo meeting with Sandor St. John.”

“We’ve already – ”

“Stop. If you were about to say that we’ve already discussed this, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to call bullshit on that.” Harvey held up a hand to halt the indignant jumble of words struggling to leave Louis’ mouth. “The only thing I managed to pry out of you before was a huge, steaming pile of excrement. You say you were called away suddenly to an emergency that prevented you from attending a meeting to sign a man who was potentially the most important and lucrative client of your career? I have two words for that, Louis. Bull. Shit.”

Louis thrust his chin out pugnaciously, and Harvey sighed. Most days he would relish a good scrap with Louis, but not today. “Look,” he said, trying for a more conciliatory tone, “this is important.”

A skeptical noise huffed out of Louis. “Of course it is. Everything always revolves around the great Harvey Specter and what he wants. And as much as I find myself mesmerized by your brilliant scatological arguments, I really am busy, so if you don’t mind…” He tilted his head to one side and crossed his arms, mouth crimped into a look of eloquent impatience.

Harvey sat up straighter and resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to play games with you. Like I said, this is important. I think Mike is in trouble. No, strike that. I know he’s in trouble.”

“And this concerns me because…?”

“Because he’s in over his head with St. John, and you, Louis, are the one who all but threw Mike at him. I don’t want to believe that you knew where that would lead. I really don’t. But you set this all in motion, and you owe me – and Mike – some goddamn answers.”

“Wait.” Louis dropped his hands to the arms of his chair and gaped at Harvey. “Wait. Just wait. What are saying? Lead where? What exactly is going on?” His gaze turned inward and a tiny, amazed smile played around his mouth. “Oh my God. That little....Huh. I never thought he’d take it that far. Impressive.”

Harvey was up out of the chair so fast he didn’t remember moving. His hands clenched into fists that ached to slam the knowing smirk clean off of Louis’ face. He reined himself in, settling for a threatening growl as he leaned closer to address Louis.

“You bastard. You used him. You sent him out there as bait.”

“Which, may I point out, St. John snapped right up.” Seeming to sense Harvey’s barely leashed violence, he pushed his chair a few inches back from his desk. “Now hold on. I never told him to seduce the man. I assumed he would just bat his big blue eyes at him and smile prettily. Anything beyond that was all Mike.”

Harvey shoved his hands in his pockets and started to pace, too keyed up to stand still. “You are unbelievable.”

“What’s your problem, Harvey? He signed the guy. Isn’t that all that matters? I mean, isn’t that your philosophy: to win no matter the cost?”

“You’re way off base. Not even in the same stadium. You may think this is a win. Maybe it is if all you count are dollars and cents. Have you bothered to take a close look at Mike in the last couple of days? If you had you would realize that he doesn’t think he’s won anything.”

“ _Please._ You don’t expect me to believe for one minute that you actually – ” He broke off suddenly, eyes going wide. Understanding dawned and his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Well, fuck me blind. You do.” He sat back, rocking gently in his chair. “You care about him.”

“Louis…”

“You do! This is certainly a startling revelation.”

“I swear to God….”

“Does your doctor know about this? Because he’ll probably want to write you up in one of the journals: ‘man spontaneously grows heart.’ I’m taken aback. I really am.”

“You done?”

“Not until you admit it.”

“Fuck you. And you’re being juvenile.”

Louis grinned smugly. “Admit it and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about St. John.” He stilled his rocking movement and pinned Harvey with an avid gaze. His voice took on a singsong quality. “Har-veee. I _know_ things.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Tell me you care about Mike. Tell me. Say it.”

Harvey growled low in his throat and sank slowly back onto his chair. “For the record, you’re an ass.” He made a quick decision to give Louis the win for now and seek payback later. “Okay. Fine. I care about Mike. Now tell me everything. Oh, and if you don’t lose that ridiculous grin I will shoot you in the face.”

“That was…I’ll treasure this moment. All right, all right. Although there’s not much to tell. About a week ago, someone on St. John’s personal staff called the front desk and was put through to me. He said that Mike had been selected – ”

“Selected how?”

“I didn’t ask. I mean, who cares, really? But St. John wanted to meet him.”

“Alone? Or with you?”

“I may have invited myself along. Then before we arrived at the helipad I received another call informing me I wouldn’t be allowed aboard the helicopter.” He gave a disgusted sounding snort. “I’d heard the rumors about the man, and so I sort of hinted to Mike that he should…you know…play along.”

Harvey concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. “First of all, what rumors?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “All those leggy runway models he escorts around town? That’s all for show so he can keep the conservative senators and congress people happy and not jeopardize any of his big military contracts. He flies under the radar with his young men, and I do mean young, although these days he manages to stay on the right side of legal. As long as they look reasonably young and innocent, he’s happy. And let’s face it, your Mikey could easily pass for much younger than he is.”

Harvey took a moment to absorb everything that Louis had said. His gaze drifted to the windows and the splatter of rain that hit in sporadic bursts. He turned back to Louis, struggling to rein in the slow burn of anger. “I see. And it didn’t occur to you to give him a heads up? To warn him that lunch could potentially end up with him as the dessert?”

Louis had the grace to at least blush, but he wasn’t ready to concede anything. “Mike may look like a a kid, but he’s not. He’s a grown man, and if he agreed to a little afternoon delight with St. John, then that was his choice.”

“Well, that’s just it, Louis.” Harvey stood and started pacing again. “I’m not so sure Mike had a choice.”

“That’s ridiculous. Listen to yourself. Do you know what you’re implying?”

“ _Yes._ Fuck, Louis. Yes!” A sudden image of Mike’s face from the night before entered his mind, and he heard again the hopelessness and defeat in his voice. Harvey’s pacing brought him to the far end of Louis’ office. He stopped and leaned back against the wall, needing the distance and not wanting Louis to read what likely showed on his face. He had already revealed much more than he had intended.

“What did Mike say? I assume you asked him, in your usual tactful way.”

Harvey considered ignoring the question, but he needed more from Louis. “I asked. He…well, let’s just say I’m working on gathering more information before I possibly make things worse for Mike. In the meantime, I’d like your help.”

“Me?”

“I know. I’m as shocked as you are. It’s not complicated. Until I hear back from my contact, I need to stall for time and I want to keep Mike away from St. John. Realistically, the only way to do that is to keep him here at the office. Between the two of us, we can send enough work his way so that he stays busy.”

Louis pursed his lips. “That’s your plan? Not up to your usual devious standards.” Even from across the room, he seemed to recognize Harvey’s dangerously narrowed eyes, and he flapped his hands in semi-apology. “No, no, it’s fine. He’s got to leave sometime, though, if only to sleep.”

Harvey sighed, suddenly exhausted with the day barely begun. “It should only be for a couple of days.” _And I don’t know what else to do._ “Just find some work for him, okay?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Good. Thank you.” He headed for the door and then paused, turning back to face Louis. “Just so we’re clear: I’m still unbelievably pissed off at you. And if you ever use Mike to reel in another client….” Various forms of revenge paraded through his head, none dire enough to suit him. “Let’s just leave that open for now, except to say that you won’t enjoy it in the least.”

“Hm. Fine. Understood.”

“Good.”

***

While Harvey waited to hear back from Vanessa, both he and Louis loaded Mike down with mountains of paper that had him working until late at night. Harvey never left the office before Mike did, and then discreetly followed him home, either in his town car, or in a cab if he had sent Ray home to his family already.

Although it had only been a few days, his plan seemed to be working. Mike still looked tired, and flinched from the simplest touch, but some of the shadows were gone from his eyes and he appeared to be breathing more easily. An unexpected reprieve occurred when Harvey heard, through Louis, that on Tuesday St. John had left the country for several days on a trip to Asia.

Friday morning, Vanessa finally called him.

***

“Hey, beautiful,” said Harvey, sliding into the booth next to his investigator and ex-lover. He kissed her cheek and ordered mineral water from the hovering waitress. Turning back to examine Vanessa more closely, he noted the tense set of her shoulders and the way her eyes tracked constantly around the dark bar. The remains of a burger and fries sat near her elbow.

Vanessa took a long pull from her bottle of beer. “You’re going to owe me extra for this one, Harvey.”

“Which I’ll gladly pay. What did you find out?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Not a hell of a lot. Mostly hints and whispers. Trails that dead end. Former employees who have left town. A lot of people too nervous to talk. Not so subtle warnings to stop asking questions. St. John has the kind of money that can make almost anything go away. Or any _one_ for that matter.”

The waitress arrived to set his mineral water in front of him and Harvey gave her a thin-lipped smile and a generous tip. “So why,” he said when the waitress was gone, “did you drag me down here if you haven’t found anything?” He sipped his water and debated ordering food, wondering if his sour stomach could handle it.

“I did say ‘mostly’. _‘Almost.’_ Really, Harvey, you’re usually more attentive than that.” She was smiling now, smug and gorgeous.

“Such a tease,” he murmured. “So? Tell me.”

“You’ve got some time?” He nodded, and she continued. “Right, then. It’s common knowledge that St. John’s first big success came with the development of SJZap, the wildly popular antivirus software that earned him his first million. He started St. John Industries and introduced a rapid succession of other cutting edge software. During the dot-com bubble he started investing in earnest and always seemed to be in the right place at the right time, knew when to buy and when to sell, and his net worth skyrocketed. When everything came crashing down in 2000, he walked away with his billions and diversified into real estate, pharmaceuticals, shipping, communications and dozens of other hot industries. At the same time, he’s kept his hand in developing, coming out with innovation after innovation, almost like clockwork.”

Harvey glanced at his watch. “I know all this, Vanessa. Everyone knows this.”

She smiled seductively. “Oh, Harvey. You’ve changed. You used to like to take your time and make it last.”

He gave a half-hearted laugh. “Normally I would love to sit here all afternoon and trade double-entendres with you, but I’m afraid the situation is too serious for that.”

She sobered instantly and placed her slim hand over his where it rested on the table. “It’s the young man you mentioned, isn’t it? Mike Ross?” She paused. He could feel her sharp gaze studying him, and then her hand tightened on his. “Oh my. You really care about him, don’t you?”

“How dare you,” he quipped without any heat, wondering when he had become so easy to read.

“Hm. Playing it close to the vest, as usual. You don’t have to tell me, but I get it. Anyway, if you’re up on your Sandor St. John lore, you probably also remember the vague rumblings about how he stole the idea for SJZap from a former partner. The lawsuit never went anywhere, and the partner quietly went away, never to be heard from again.”

“Interesting, but hardly relevant to the present situation.”

“Maybe. But it was the first in a long series of accusations of theft, all of which evaporated just as abruptly.”

“Still not seeing any connection to Mike.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll skip ahead a little. As you requested, I checked into other attorneys who have represented him over the last couple of decades and found an interesting pattern which may or may not mean anything.”

“Ah. Let me guess. He likes to offer opportunities to young, untried attorneys, none of whom are willing to talk to you.”

She erupted into the musical laugh he had always adored. “My God, Harvey. You do insist on being at least one step ahead of everyone else, don’t you?”

He shrugged, granting her a faint smile. “I did say it was a guess.”

“It’s not so much that they won’t talk to me, although I’ve had more than a few doors slammed in my face already. Three are still here in New York and are now partners at their firms. Another four have relocated and refuse to take my calls. I have yet to track down the last before your Mike. _But._ ” She paused to eye him speculatively.

“But? Don’t leave me hanging, beautiful. What have you got?”

“Are you willing to spring for a plane ticket to Boise?”

“As in Idaho? Depends. What’s in Boise?”

He watched her lift her bottle of beer and drain it. “Not what, darling. Who. Last Chance Charlie, as it were. Charles Clayburgh, particular favorite of Mr. St. John five years ago. He lost his license to practice law in New York, packed up and moved home to Boise where he manages a hardware store and, evidently, nurses a rather deep grudge against St. John. He agreed to talk to me, but not over the phone, and not via email.”

Harvey tapped a finger on the tabletop, thinking. “And you think this will shed a light on what’s going on with Mike?”

“I can’t say for sure. Right now, though, it’s my only lead. So…”

“So get your cute little ass to Idaho. And call me if you find anything.”

She laid her hand on top of his arm. “Mike will be okay, Harvey. We’ll figure this out.”

“Damn straight we will.” He leaned in and dropped another quick kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, Vanessa. You’re the best.”

“Which is why you’re going to pay for my beer and the lunch I had before you got here.” She rose to her feet and gave him one last, long, considering look. “Does he know?”

He didn’t bother pretending to misunderstand her. “Go catch your plane.”

S*S*S*S*S*S

By Friday morning, Mike was mentally and physically exhausted. Earlier in the week, Harvey had seemed intent upon working him until he dropped, and Louis had been all too eager to pile on as well. The workload had eased up, but his nerves were stretched to the breaking point waiting for the next shoe to drop with St. John. Before leaving on his business trip, he had called Mike several times, growing progressively angrier with each excuse Mike gave as to why he couldn’t leave the office.

Having St. John out of the country offered Mike a small measure of relief, but at the same time he lived with a growing dread of the consequences to come. Several times a day, he checked the Harvard website and then confirmed the account balance at his grandmother’s nursing home. Nothing had been altered, and so he knew he hadn’t pushed St. John too far. Still, his imagination conjured punishment after possible punishment until he just wanted it over with.

Around one in the afternoon, Harvey dropped another pile of draft contracts on his desk and informed him that he would be out of the office for an hour or so. Mike grunted in acknowledgment. As he watched Harvey’s broad shoulders disappear down the hallway, his cell phone rang.

It was St. John.

“Did you miss me, Michael?”

“Seriously? What do you expect me to say?” The words came out more loudly than he’d intended and he saw Gregory shoot him a curious look from across the room. Turning away, he lowered his voice. “What do you want?”

“You’ve been a naughty boy, avoiding me and making excuses. If I hadn’t been spending the last few days remembering your sweet ass and delectable mouth, I’d probably decide you were more trouble than you’re worth and right about now Jessica Pearson would be the recipient of an anonymous email.”

Mike’s breathing sped up and the room seemed to swim in front of him for a moment. “It wasn’t my fault. It’s been crazy around here.”

“Excuses don’t cut it with me. You should know that by now. But the fact remains that our time together has been a complete delight so far. Which is why I’m going to give you another chance.”

Mike swallowed past a bone-dry throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll meet you tonight after work. I promise. Just tell me where.”

A soft raspy laugh shivered through the phone. “I could only wish that your eagerness was real. I’ll award you a few points for the attempt. Now, here’s what you’re going to do. Turn off your computer and leave everything behind. My limo is waiting for you downstairs. My driver is going to take you to the helipad and from there you’ll be flown to my estate to wait for my arrival. Sadly, I have meetings all afternoon here in town, but I’ll be there in time for a late dinner. And then you’re going to spend the rest of the weekend trying to convince me of how sorry you really are.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Mike rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I can’t just – ”

“Stop, Michael. You have five minutes to get downstairs or my driver will leave, and then you’ll be forced to face the consequences of your disobedience. Are you prepared for that? Is your sweet old Grammy prepared for that?” There was brief silence and then the voice came again, sharp like the lash of a whip. “Michael. Answer me.”

“I…I’m on my way.”

“Great. I’ll see you in a few hours. Oh, and Michael? When I get there, I expect to find you naked and on your knees.”

The phone went dead. Mike sat unmoving for a few more seconds before jerking into action, shutting down his computer and grabbing a post-it to scribble a quick note. Ignoring Gregory’s ugly smirk, he headed for the elevator at just under a run. He stabbed and stabbed at the down button, mumbling curses under his breath while he pictured the hordes of office workers returning from lunch or just heading out for a late one, causing the elevators to stop on every floor. When it finally arrived and he had made the excruciatingly slow ride to street level, he sagged in relief to see the familiar limousine still waiting right in front of the building.

He recoiled, startled, when the stone-faced driver got out to open the back door for him. He sank into the leather upholstery which seemed to surround and adhere to him, like a luxurious trap one didn’t recognize until it was much too late. As he watched the city pass by outside the tinted windows, stray yellow and orange leaves sticking to the rain-speckled windows, he tried not to think about an entire weekend virtually alone with St. John at his estate in the Hamptons.

He succeeded for a while, but only because a different dread dominated his thoughts, playing over and over until he was nearly ill with it.

 _Harvey is going to be so pissed._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got creepier than I intended and implies ugly Daddy issues which could trigger some readers

Harvey surfaced slowly from sleep to the sound of his cell phone ringing. He pushed himself up off of his couch and reached blindly for the phone. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but that probably had something to do with the several glasses of expensive scotch he had downed too quickly to help quell his anger at – and yes, worry over – Mike. The phone displayed Vanessa’s name.

“Yeah,” he croaked. “It’s me.”

“I thought it might be,” she answered, amusement in her voice. “Did I wake you?”

He gave a wordless growl and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “What time is it?”

“That depends if you’re you or me. Here in beautiful Boise it’s just past eleven.”

Which meant it was two a.m. and Harvey had slept for perhaps three hours.

“I assume if you’re calling at this ungodly hour that you’ve found something out?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. “You could say that.”

He glanced towards the kitchen. “Is this conversation going to require that I make a pot of coffee first?”

“There’s a bit to tell. Clayburgh talked nearly non-stop for an hour and a half, but I can summarize.”

“Was there some reason this couldn’t wait until the morning?” He wasn’t angry, just curious.

Vanessa’s pause was enough to turn curiosity back into worry. “Van?”

“Yeah. Look, I’m on the road, on the way back to the airport. I’ll come straight to your place in the morning, all right?”

Harvey frowned. It wasn’t like Vanessa to be so reticent. “And you can’t just tell me now because…?”

“I’d rather not go into this over the phone, darling.” She laughed. “I’m afraid Clayburgh has infected me with some of his ‘Conspiracy Theory’ style paranoia. It’s fascinating and a little terrifying. But you’ll hear all about it when I get there. Try to get some sleep and have the coffee ready for me by seven. Oh, and Harvey? You should probably find your Mike and keep him with you until we can come up with a plan to fix this.”

With that cryptic – and chest pain inducing – comment, she hung up on him. He stared at his phone and thought about hurling it across the room. He would happily keep Mike with him if he only knew where the hell he was.

Fuck you very much St. John, you slimy, blackmailing weasel.

He tossed the phone on the coffee table and scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d screwed up, letting Mike out of his sight. He slumped backwards into the couch and sat unmoving for a few minutes, staring blankly at the far wall, running through all the things he could think of that Vanessa could have discovered. Finally, he stood and shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee. There was no way he was going to get back to sleep now, and he might as well try his hand at a little research of his own while he waited. He returned to the living room, turned on his laptop and paced distractedly, waiting for the coffee to brew. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he decided that he should probably change out of his suit trousers and dress shirt.

He strode into the bedroom and began his normal routine of emptying his pockets onto the dresser. When he pulled out a small amount of change, a yellow square of paper fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up and recognized it as the post-it note he had found stuck to Mike’s desk when he had returned from meeting with Vanessa. He frowned at it, feeling the same alarm and irritation that had shot through him the first time he spotted it. Reading it now, it didn’t make any more sense than it had earlier. It was addressed to Harvey, one line stating he had to leave early, but giving no explanation. (Later that afternoon, when Louis had called to tell him that St. John had returned from his business trip, Harvey had guessed the reason for Mike’s early departure and he could have cursed himself for letting him slip away like that.)

The bottom third of the post-it had what appeared to be a scribbled reminder from Mike to himself to look up something in the New York code, with article and paragraph numbers listed. He tossed the post-it on top of his dresser and finished undressing, changing into a pair of jeans and his favorite Yankees t-shirt.

The coffee was ready when he returned to the kitchen, so he poured himself a mug and carried it out to the living room. He took a couple of sips, stared at his laptop, and then pulled up Google and tried to decide the best way to unravel the mystery of Sandor St. John.

Before he could begin, his phone bleeped, signaling the arrival of a text message. It was from Vanessa: Sending photo of SJ as teen. _Explanation self-evident. Pls delete ASAP!!!_

He shook his head. “Okay, Conspiracy Theory.” Frowning impatiently, he waited for the photo. Nearly a minute later, the phone bleeped again and he tapped the screen to pull up what she had sent him.

For a few seconds, he stared in confusion, positive she had made a mistake and sent him the wrong photo. Then a jolt of caffeine hit his brain and he registered what he was looking at. What he had mistaken at first for a picture of a younger Mike Ross was in fact St. John. The face was perhaps a little thinner and longer, the nose shorter, but although the boy in the photo could almost have passed for Mike’s twin, it wasn’t him.

“Well, shit.”

His eyes remained riveted to the photo as connections, implications and possible explanations bounced around in his head. He struggled to slot everything into place, to understand the significance of what Vanessa had discovered. It didn’t make sense. Not yet. But it did point to a rather huge, obvious and frightening conclusion.

Sandor St. John was one disturbed, fucked up son of a bitch.

He deleted the photo and tapped out a quick text to Vanessa: _Send me your flight info. Will pick you up at airport._

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

Mike had been on his knees for hours by the time St. John finally made an appearance. At some point he had dozed off with the side of the bed propping him up and woke suddenly to the muffled sound of voices downstairs. He rearranged himself, sliding away from the bed and closer to the center of the room. As the door to the bedroom swung inward, he straightened his posture but kept his gaze glued to the carpet. His heart felt like a small, crazed bird trapped inside his chest, and he wondered if it was actually possible to hyperventilate and suffocate simultaneously.

“Well, look at you.” St. John’s hated, raspy voice floated over his head. Long legs encased in expensive wool serge came into view seconds before a hand stroked the top of Mike’s head. The hand tightened in his hair, pulling his head back so that Mike was forced to meet St. John’s gaze. The older man smiled down at him. “I’m glad you’ve finally remembered how to follow a simple instruction. I might even reward you for that later.”

He let Mike go and backed up a few steps to sit in his armchair. “Or maybe not. I haven’t decided yet.” He pulled off first one shoe and then the other, lining them up precisely parallel to one another next to the chair, peeling off his socks and tucking them inside the shoes. “I haven’t forgotten your refusal to spend time with me last week.” His tie came off next. He folded it in exact thirds and smoothed it onto the arm of the chair. “I found myself absurdly distracted on my trip abroad. I blame you, of course.” He unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt, rolled up each sleeve just short of his elbows and leaned back, legs stretched in front of him. “Michael? Isn’t there anything you want to say to me?”

 _Fuck off and die_ , came immediately to mind, but Mike kept that to himself. He pressed his lips together, thinking. “Uh. I’m sorry?”

“Uh,” St. John mocked. “Are you? You don’t sound sorry.”

A light tap at the door caught St. John’s attention. “Come,” he said and the door opened to admit two men, the first carrying a tray of food and the second a bottle of scotch and one glass.

A mortified breath hissed out of Mike. He twitched with the need to scramble behind the bed and hide, but one dark look from St. John kept him pinned in place. He could feel himself blush all the way to his toes, and he was suddenly too warm. _I suppose I’m now officially his dirty, dirty whore_ , he thought, striving for detached irony and failing miserably. He stared at St. John’s bony toes and tried to pretend he was somewhere else.

“Michael?” St. John’s amused voice dragged him back to the present. “You’re being rude. Say hello to Steve and Ronnie.”

 _Seriously?_

Mike forced his gaze upwards to the two men who were busy setting out food and drink on the small table next to St. John. After swallowing repeatedly, Mike opened his mouth and then nearly choked, lightheaded with shock as he recognized one of the men. Steve? Ronnie? He had no clue which was which, but the taller of the two, the one who was smirking at Mike from next to St. John, Mike absolutely recognized him, even though the last time he’d seen him Mike was shitfaced drunk and had just been bent over a table and fucked stupid. Steve or Ronnie had been smirking in just the same way as he’d left Mike alone to pull himself together, pick the splinters from his hips and find his own stumbling way home.

Mike gaped, mouth hanging open like a dying fish. Steve or Ronnie or whatever his name was laughed, a low, dry, secretive sound, barely more than a whisper of breath. St. John had to have heard him, and he smiled as if sharing the joke while he watched Mike’s reaction. He reached over and plucked a cherry tomato from the table next to him and popped it in his mouth, eyes bright and amused. Mike’s stomach churned with acid and he decided distantly that he would very much like to throw up, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything, so that option was probably not open to him. He felt hollow inside, and powerless to do anything besides kneel as still as possible while his internal temperature controls went haywire, heat and chills alternating, chasing one another in crazy spirals through his insides.

 _One mystery solved_ , he thought. He’d been set up, suckered as neatly as some naïve tourist in town hunting for some naughty entertainment in between Broadway shows. He was an idiot, so foolish he felt he almost deserved what was happening to him. If the only thing St. John held over his head were those damn photographs, Mike might have left right then, risking certain humiliation later in order to salvage one tiny shred of dignity now.

The thought of his grandmother stopped him. He wouldn’t condemn her to live in some crappy state facility. And if his lies about Harvard were revealed, he might lose a job he’d never deserved – something which part of him believed was bound to happen sooner or later – but Harvey would also end up in deep shit. He couldn’t repay Harvey like that, so he would stay where he was, do what St. John asked, and keep his mouth shut.

Mike straightened his back and lifted his chin a fraction of an inch. _Bring it on, you asshole. I’ll take whatever you’ve got. This won’t break me._ ( _Liar_ , whispered another, more realistic voice inside him. _You’re so far out of your depth, you dumb little shit._ He did his best to ignore that voice.)

St. John continued to smile, but his eyes narrowed. “Mmm,” he murmured. “Feeling defiant, are we?” He turned his head slightly, gaze still on Mike, and spoke to Steve and Ronnie. “Get out, fellas. Stick around, though, in case I need you for anything else.”

When they were alone, St. John raised his index finger and crooked it at Mike. “By my side, Michael. Let’s eat.”

Mike could think of few things he would like to do less right at that moment than eat, but he shuffled awkwardly along on his knees, stopping next to St. John where he indicated by snapping his fingers and pointing at the carpet.

“Lean against the side of the chair with your chin on the arm.”

Mike felt ridiculous, like a dog begging for scraps at his master’s table, but he positioned himself as ordered. The food was on the other side of St. John. Mike hadn’t paid close attention to what was on the menu, but he’d gotten a brief impression of cut up fruits and vegetables, crackers, cheeses, dishes of sauce, and an assortment of other fingers foods he hadn’t recognized. Although he guessed what St. John had in mind, he couldn’t help flinching and turning his head to the side to avoid the oily artichoke heart that St. John pushed against his lips.

“Open,” St. John said, holding the morsel close enough that Mike felt oil smear across his cheek.

He turned back and made an “o” of his mouth, staring up at St. John and hoping his eyes conveyed his thoughts at that moment, which consisted of something like, _fuck you and your disgusting food, you big freak._

Next came three different kinds of olives, jicama dragged through a variety of dips, smooth, rubbery spheres of mozzarella, pita bread with garlicky hummus. By the third salty green olive, Mike’s stomach was rebelling, and with each succeeding morsel it became harder and harder to force himself to swallow. When the cut crystal tumbler of scotch came to rest on his lips, he pressed his mouth together and fixed wide, pleading eyes on the older man.

“You don’t have a choice, Michael.” St. John’s voice sounded almost gentle. He lifted the glass away slightly and stroked his thumb across Mike’s lower lip. “I want you relaxed tonight. I’ve been thinking about you all week and what I want to do to you.” The glass returned, nudging against his mouth. “Drink, sweetheart.”

He tipped the glass and Mike opened his mouth and caught most of the fiery liquid in his mouth and on his tongue, but couldn’t prevent the stream that escaped to coat his chin. St. John leaned closer and bent his head, lapping up the excess scotch. Mike coughed at the burn in his throat and gave a disgusted grimace, swiping a hand over his chin. “Yuck,” he muttered, and then froze at St. John’s expression. “I mean…” _Oh, shit._ “No offense, right?”

St. John sat back, studying Mike. “I begin to wonder,” he began, and stood up, unbuckling his narrow leather belt and unthreading it from the loops of his trousers. He stood slowly, and made a deliberate half circle around Mike until he stood behind him.

Mike straightened up and turned his head, needing to keep St. John in sight. “Um…you wonder?” he prompted, reasonably sure he wouldn’t care for the conclusion to that sentence. The end of the belt slithered down his naked back and he gave a convulsive shiver.

“I wonder, Michael, if I made a mistake choosing you. I’ve been patient, but – ” He stepped back and flicked the belt across Mike’s shoulders. “You.” _Flick_. “Just.” _Flick_. “Don’t.” This time Mike heard a swish of air before the belt licked like fire down his back. “You just don’t fucking learn.”

“ _Ow._ ” Mike tried to turn and scramble out of the way, but the belt caught him across the face. “Fuck! Are you nuts?” He staggered to his feet, trying to get out of range of the belt, but St. John’s foot shot out, quick as a striking snake, and swept him off his feet. He fell to his hands and knees, twisting his wrist to keep his face from slamming into the floor. And then the belt lashed against him, impossibly fast, moving from place to place on his vulnerable flesh. He covered his head and face with his arms and waited for the assault to stop, biting his lips so he wouldn’t whimper or cry out.

And finally it did stop. His back and thighs throbbed as if on fire. He heard himself panting and making occasional pained whines in the back of his throat. Above him, St. John breathed deep and steady, and Mike sensed him watching. He felt stupid and weak. Humiliated. He spoke before he could censor his words, spoke out of habit, trying to make a joke to salvage his pride. “Well. That sucked. Like…big time.”

A low, animal snarl ripped from St. John’s throat. Rough hands grabbed Mike’s hair and yanked him to his feet. He was dragged backwards in the direction of the bed. “Whoa. Caveman much?” This time the intended quip emerged on a choking sob, and when St. John’s clenched hand whipped out to land a savage backhanded blow to Mike’s cheek, he snapped his mouth shut and told himself to just fucking shut up.

St. John seemed to have descended into a cold, precise fury. He shoved Mike onto the bed, knelt behind him and dragged him towards the headboard. Within what seemed like seconds, Mike found himself cuffed to the headboard. The belt lay discarded at the foot of the bed. Mike cringed when St. John reached for it, but the older man only stared at it for a moment and then flung it across the room. It hit the far wall, buckle giving a muted clank. St. John stood next to the bed, facing away from Mike, back muscles taut under his dress shirt. He began to undress rapidly, shedding his expensive clothing in an untidy heap on the floor.

When he’d finished, he didn’t move for a time. Mike could hear his harsh, uneven breaths, and hoped that St. John was getting his rage under control. When St. John finally turned back towards the bed, Mike’s own breath stopped in his throat at the sight of tear tracks on St. John’s contorted face. St. John took one lurching step to reach the bed, and his chest convulsed in a sob.

 _Holy shit. This is majorly fucked up._

If he could have, Mike would have scooted further away from St. John. As it was, his trussed arms were bent at an awkward angle so that he could keep his back pressed against the headboard. St. John climbed on the bed and stalked across its huge expanse on hands and knees, eyes glittering with incomprehensible grief. Mike tensed for another blow, but when St. John reached him, he pressed one trembling hand to Mike’s cheek and stroked him, focused and tender.

“Baby,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to Mike’s ear. “Baby boy. Why?” He paused as another sob rippled through him. “Why do you make me hurt you?” He wrapped his arms around Mike’s head and crushed him to his chest, mashing the side of Mike’s face against his heated skin. “We don’t have to do this. Just tell me what I want to hear.”

Mike pried open the one eye not jammed against the other man’s bristly chest hair. “Wha – ?” he managed to force out, tasting sweat and salt.

St. John shifted, petting Mike’s head and dropping quick little kisses onto his forehead. “Never forget that Daddy does these things because he loves you. He only wants the best for his baby boy.” He pulled away and then kneeled up and straddled Mike’s lap, one hand on his shoulder. His gleaming hazel eyes bored into Mike, desperate and intense, while his other hand slipped between Mike’s legs, one finger stroking his entrance before pushing inside, blunt and dry. “Daddy’s going to make you feel so nice, baby. Gonna show how much he loves you.”

He added another unlubed finger and fucked in and out, kissing Mike’s face and shushing him when he began to squirm and whimper at the pain. “Don’t, baby. Don’t cry. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s got you. Now smile pretty and tell Daddy you love him. Tell Daddy you love him and then we’ll use something to ease the way a little.”

In that moment, Mike felt as if all of the blood had drained from his body. His heart thudded inside him, heavy and panicked, like a warning arriving much too late, as it dawned on him with sudden clarity that in an already fucked up situation, the level of fucked-up-ness had just shot through the roof.

 _Shit shit shit._

Mike clamped his lips together, holding in his groans even as thin whines continued to escape. Sweat broke out on his forehead, slid down his neck and ribs. “Stop,” he gasped. “Please. Shit. That h-hurts.”

St. John’s fingers gave another brutal shove. “Say it and I’ll make it better.” He bit Mike’s earlobe with a sudden violence that had him arching off the bed in shock. His fingers stilled, but stayed inside of Mike, and he drew back slightly to meet Mike’s eyes.

Any of the vulnerability in his face which Mike may have seen earlier – or perhaps had only imagined – vanished, replaced with freezing menace. His raspy voice deepened, seeming to vibrate through Mike’s entire body. “Or keep quiet, and you’ll get exactly what bad little boys deserve. Defy me, and _I will fucking rip you in half_.”

Terror-fueled adrenaline flooded Mike and he jerked and pulled at his bonds. “No,” he moaned. “Please.”

There was just no way he could do what St. John wanted. He couldn’t say the words, _wouldn’t_ say them, and now…now – his mind balked, and he refused to complete the thought.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. Three staccato raps sounded at the door and St. John froze, jaw still working with remnants of his fury. For a moment that seemed to last an eternity, his gaze locked with Mike’s, and Mike shivered at what he saw: decades old pain, hatred and fear overlaid with the need to _hurt, rip, claw, tear._ He wanted to look away, shut his eyes and block it out.

And then the suave mask slid back into place. St. John laughed, if a little shakily, and rolled away from Mike. He strolled to the door and opened it a crack. “Yes?” His voice sounded as smooth and unconcerned as if he had been interrupted while sorting his sock drawer. A muffled reply came from the other side of the door and St. John’s voice sharpened in response. “Really? I see. All right. I’ll be right down.”

He closed the door and turned back towards the bed, expression thoughtful. “How interesting. It appears that your Mr. Harvey Specter has finally troubled himself to pry into my life. Not that it will do him any good. You’ve seen for yourself how I can manipulate things to suit my desires.” He narrowed his eyes, and Mike could almost see the wheels turning inside his head. “Maybe I underestimated his interest in you, Michael. Hmm. I begin to understand your defiance last week. Harvey had a hand in that didn’t he? Keeping you busy late into the night….” St. smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Well, well. This just became truly fascinating.”

A confusing mixture of hope and dread swept through Mike. He didn’t want Harvey hurt by any of this, but it warmed him to hear that he had become curious enough to investigate. His faith in Harvey’s ability to fix anything warred with fear of the raw, seemingly unchecked power that St. John’s billions afforded him.

“See you in a while, Michael. Don’t go anywhere.”

The door closed behind St. John, leaving Mike alone to wait and worry and hope.


	7. Chapter 7

After a couple of hours spent clicking from one website to the next, Harvey’s head was pounding and his eyes had gone gummy and dry. He’d uncovered no huge, damning revelations about St. John. The closest he’d come were official records of a handful of lawsuits against St. John Industries which had been dropped almost as soon as they were filed. When he tried to track down information on the plaintiffs, he came up empty.

Which was strange.

Everyone who had accused St. John of stealing their ideas seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, or had been purged from the Internet. That right there did not pass his sniff test, but Harvey couldn’t go any further at the moment without help from someone with more expertise than he possessed. He only hoped that the information Vanessa had collected would prove useful.

He stood, arching his back to get the kinks out, and paced over to the window. The double-paned glass vibrated with the force of a storm which had blown in some time during the night. Sleet splooshed against the window and slid down to pool on his balcony. His normally agile brain felt as thick and gloppy as the frozen rain. _Think_ , he exhorted himself. _Figure this thing out before it’s too late_.

St. John was adept at making lawsuits go away…at making people go away. These days, rich as he was, he could probably use his money to make any challenges disappear. When he was just starting out, however, that wouldn’t have been the case. So…threats? Blackmail? And what about his collection of young attorneys who couldn’t or wouldn’t speak a word against him? Blackmail seemed the most likely answer. If you found a person’s weak spot, the source of their vulnerability, almost anyone could be manipulated. Harvey knew this firsthand. How many times had he gone for an opponent’s metaphorical jugular in order to win a case?

What was Mike’s weak spot? He couldn’t imagine Mike caving for anything minor. It had to be something big. What held such importance for Mike?

The first, most obvious answer: his grandmother. The kid had been ready to resort to dealing drugs to pay her bills. It would have been easy enough for St. John to find out about her. Had he threatened her physically? Possible, but not likely. A high-profile person like St. John would need to be more subtle than that.

What else? Mike’s non-existent Harvard degree came in a strong second. He frowned. Would the fear of exposure be a significant enough threat to force Mike’s compliance and silence? Maybe, especially since it tied back in with his grandmother. Without his salary from Pearson Hardman, he couldn’t afford to keep his grandmother at her current facility.

The thought of St. John coercing Mike into his bed had been eating at Harvey since the dinner at _Galen’s_. The realization that he had likely played on Mike’s loyalty and love for his grandmother to force him there infuriated Harvey beyond reason. He wished he could get the bastard alone and take him apart piece by piece. He had to tread carefully, though, be smart about it. Once he talked to Vanessa he could decide what needed to be done. With his billions, St. John would be a dangerous enemy. Still, the temptation was strong to find Mike _now_ and drag him to safety.

Which brought up another problem: where was Mike?

St. John possessed several buildings in Manhattan, along with half a dozen properties up and down the Eastern seaboard. Harvey had no idea where Mike had gone when he left the office. Back to St. John’s estate in the Hamptons? Harvey could head there and look for him, but if he was wrong, he would lose valuable time. He glanced at his watch. Vanessa’s flight should be arriving in a little over an hour. Sick of waiting and worrying, Harvey decided to leave for the airport. He could hang around and stew there just as easily as at home.

He strode into the bedroom to grab his car keys from the top of the dresser. As he reached for them, his gaze was caught by Mike’s yellow post-it note. He picked it up and stared at the familiar scrawl. Suddenly he could almost sense Mike’s bright presence in his bedroom, see him sprawled loose-limbed and untidy underneath the comforter. And _Jesus God_ he wanted him there, sleepy and fucked out and grinning. He could picture it so clearly he had to blink and blink to bring himself back to the present.

He was still staring at the note, and just like that it seemed to jump into clearer focus and he froze, realization hitting him with such force that he nearly groaned in pain. Mike had jotted an article and paragraph number at the bottom of the note and a reminder to _look it up_.

Mike, who possessed an eidetic memory. Mike, who once he had read something never forgot it. Mike had left him a clue, and Harvey had been too blind to see it.

Post-it clutched in his fist, he returned to his laptop to pull up the New York code. Less than a minute later, he found himself frowning in confusion. Article 40 had no paragraph 57, and likewise article 72 had no paragraph 11. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to yank hunks of it out in frustration. The numbers must mean something, but he was damned if he could work it out at that moment. Maybe Vanessa could make some sense out of the seemingly random numbers.

Throwing on a jacket and stuffing the note in his pocket, he headed for the elevator and the parking garage. Almost as an afterthought, he texted Mike’s numbers to Vanessa in order to give her a head start solving the mystery.

***

“Oh, Harvey. I really wish you hadn’t let him out of your sight like that.” Vanessa tossed her small carry-on bag on the floor at her feet and clicked her seatbelt into place. Her long, dark hair had been swept into disarray by the gusting wind. “Damn. Do you have any idea what that monster is capable of?”

He gave her an exasperated glare before maneuvering past several other cars picking up passengers at LaGuardia. “First of all, no, I don’t have any idea since you haven’t told me yet. Secondly, Mike disappeared while I was having lunch with you. I had no clue that shitbag was back in town.”

“You mean, while you were watching me finish my lunch?”

“Whatever.” He took a quick look in his side mirror before darting in front of a taxi and accelerating into traffic. The taxi’s horn blared, followed by the squeal of tires on wet pavement. Harvey caught sight of Vanessa out of the corner of his eye cringing and bracing her hand against the dashboard. Seeing her reaction made him feel better, although he knew he was being an ass.

She scowled at him but refrained from commenting, probably remembering all of the arguments they’d had in the past about his style of driving. “Have you eaten anything since I saw you?”

He gave a humorless chuff of laughter. “Does Lagavulin count?”

“That explains your driving.”

“Ha ha.”

“Why don’t we stop for breakfast while I fill you in on all the ugly details?”

“Did you make any sense out of the numbers I texted you?”

She sighed. “I’m tempted to say no, just so we can sit calmly for a few minutes. It’s not going to do Mike any good if we go charging in without a plan.”

Harvey gave an inarticulate growl. “Charging in where exactly? See, that is problem number one. We have no idea where he is. Problems two through ten have to do with the fact that Mike is well past the age of consent and may not want our interference.”

He shot quick glances in Vanessa’s direction as he negotiated the early morning traffic, waiting for her to say something in response.

Her hand went up to brush ineffectually at her wind-blown hair. “I could really use some coffee,” she finally said. As if sensing Harvey’s rapidly fraying patience, she shook her head. “It’s okay. We don’t have to stop. Just find me a drive-thru and I’ll tell you everything on the way.”

He deliberately kept his voice low and soft in order to prevent himself from melting her face off with a nuclear blast of frustration. “Van. You know that I adore you beyond words. But on the way to where?”

Vanessa held up her phone, the lit screen turned in his direction displaying a map. “The Hamptons.”

“We don’t know that he’s there.”

She smiled smugly. “Oh, but we do. Which is why I am the investigator, and you are nothing but an overpaid suit.”

Despite his tension and worry about Mike, Harvey couldn’t help the hint of a smile which tugged at his mouth. He’d spoken the truth earlier. Despite their innate incompatibility, he did worship Vanessa just a little. Okay, more than a little. “I’m sure you could find plenty of people who would agree with you. They’d be wrong, of course, but that’s jealousy for you. Please. Don’t leave me in suspense. How did you figure it out?”

“From Mike. Those numbers he left you? They are the near exact latitude and longitude of St. John’s house in the Hamptons.”

“Huh. How Encyclopedia Brown of him. Trite, but effective. That solves problem number one, but….”

“Get me some fucking coffee and let’s take a little excursion to the Hamptons. You drive, and I’ll talk. Deal?”

“When you put it so prettily, how can I refuse?”

***

Charles Clayburgh, or “Chuck,” as he had insisted Vanessa call him, had graduated fourth in his class from Columbia Law, and received offers from no fewer than five top New York law firms. His future showed enormous promise. He was on the partner track at Fields, Gray and Nichols and if that meant brutal hours and virtually no social life, what did he care? He had seemingly left Boise far in his rearview mirror and the sky was the limit.

Halfway into his second year at Fields et al, Chuck met Sandor St. John. The stars in his eyes lasted just long enough for him to realize that St. John had uncovered every indiscretion and area of vulnerability in his life, and that he intended to use them against him if he didn’t give himself over to St. John’s pleasures.

Understandably enough, Chuck omitted most of the details of St. John’s hold over him, as well as exactly what the billionaire’s pleasures entailed. (Not that Harvey wanted to know.) Eventually, however, Chuck had disobeyed and confessed his predicament to a close friend. After that, his life in New York and at Fields had been dismantled by St. John, one piece at a time. He’d been fired, disbarred, publicly humiliated, and had scurried back to Boise with his tail between his legs. Worse, his friend – boyfriend, not to put too fine a point on it – had disappeared.

That had been five years ago. Since then, Chuck had been engaged in his own private investigation of St. John with an eye towards exposing his crimes to the world.

“Our Chuck is really quite resourceful and mind-numbingly thorough,” Vanessa said. “If he weren’t all the way out in Idaho, I might consider going partners with him. In fact, he’s done what I couldn’t manage. Although to be fair, he’s had a bit more time than I have.”

“Okay. He’s amazing. He’s brilliant. I get it. When this is all over you can fly back to Idaho for a joyful reunion. In the meantime, maybe you could trouble yourself to tell me the rest of it.”

“Ooh. Grouchy. Let me remind you that I’m the one who’s spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours on an airplane.”

“Damn straight, I’m grouchy. I can’t believe I let you talk me into that revolting breakfast sandwich. People actually eat that? On purpose?”

“You didn’t used to be such a snob.”

“I’m not a – ” Harvey squinted through the slanting rain and breathed slowly, trying to bring his temper under control. He estimated that they had at least another hour before they reached St. John’s “House of Horrors,” as he’d begun to think of it. At least the Saturday morning traffic was fairly light. “Fine. I’m a snob and a grouch. Now pretty please finish your story.”

“So sincere,” she muttered, but continued.

Chuck had convinced several of St. John’s former victims to speak to him, and their stories were remarkably similar. They’d been drugged, restrained, threatened and coerced. After a period of time, anywhere from two months to a year, St. John had dismissed them, and most of them had gone on to successful careers.

“Chuck gave me copies of their first year associate photos. The ones they post with their bios on the firm website? You might want to pull over for half a minute to see these.”

Having been reminded that arguing with Vanessa would always be a losing battle, Harvey steered the sleek sports car to the side of the road and left the engine idling. Vanessa passed him a stack of perhaps a dozen photocopies and he shuffled through them, letting out a low whistle before he was halfway through. He turned toward Vanessa, eyebrows raised. “Looks like a casting call for _Children of the Corn_. Just with slightly darker hair.”

He flipped through the rest of the pile and sure enough, every damn one of them could have been brothers or close cousins to both Mike and the St. John pictured in the photo that Vanessa had texted him earlier.

“Creepy. So he has a type.” He handed the pictures back to Vanessa and pulled back onto the expressway.

“He has a type. He _is_ a type. The prototype, you could say.”

“And...what? His fantasizes about fucking himself? The ultimate narcissist?”

“His younger self, Harvey. His much younger self.” She paused as if waiting for him to come to some conclusion. When he shook his head and gave her his _I got nothing face_ , she sighed gustily. “During his digging, Chuck discovered that an uncommonly large number of St. John’s past acquaintances – friends, enemies, associates – have gone missing. And before St. John even left his hometown of Kansas City, before he was even a twinkle in the eye of the tech or business worlds, the first disappearance – and probable victim – was his father. Now, I’ll sit here and sip the cold dregs of my coffee while you do a little math and attempt to figure out what that all adds up to.”

Harvey’s brain may have been firing on far too few cylinders for most of the last day or two, but even his creaky synapses were up to the task of figuring out that Psych 101 puzzler. Young St. John had been a victim of abuse, and after taking revenge on his father, had assumed the elder St. John’s role and set out to keep the sick cycle circling round and round.

 _Allegedly. Fucking fuck on a pogo stick_.

“All caught up,” he said grimly and let his foot press a little harder on the accelerator. “I don’t suppose the awesome Chuck found any proof of foul play. And I can’t believe I just used the term ‘foul play.’”

“He got rather cagey when I asked him. I think the answer is likely no. Mostly it adds up to a damning pattern, nothing more. He did suggest that it made sense to concentrate on the most recent disappearance.”

“And who would that be?”

“David Greaves. St. John’s latest fuck toy before Mike. He went missing four months ago.”

“Wait. I thought you said that all of the associates he victimized were alive and well and practicing law. Except for Chuck, of course.”

A dark SUV of gargantuan proportions shot past them on the left, rocking the sports car in its draft and sending up a spray of water that temporarily blinded Harvey. “Fucker,” he muttered, turning his wipers on high. When he could see the road again, he realized that Vanessa hadn’t answered him. “Van?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Chuck left town for a reason. Sure, he had no job, no license to practice, and a missing boyfriend. But he loved it here. I’m sure Boise is a lovely city, but Chuck is obviously not happy there. He does feel safe, though. Safer, anyway. He’s thousands of miles away from St. John, living an obscure life and trying to stay under the radar. I wasn’t kidding about that _Conspiracy Theory_ stuff. You should see the electronic contraptions he surrounds himself with. I doubt the NSA has as many safeguards against eavesdropping and spying. He is truly paranoid. It’s kind of magnificent, actually.”

“You’re seriously taking the word of a guy who wears a tinfoil hat?”

She sighed. “Chuck didn’t want to talk much about his experience with St. John. He did tell me what drove him over the edge and convinced him to break his silence with his boyfriend. It happened during a weekend at the estate in the Hamptons.”

Thick, sleety rain pounded the windshield and roof. Tree branches shuddered and bent in the wind. The wipers swept back and forth, frenzied as a heartbeat. “Oh.” Harvey felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, leaving him queasy and hollow. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not. But you need to hear this. Evidently St. John’s Daddy issues surfaced in some way that freaked out poor Chuck enough that he decided to cut the weekend short and get the hell out of there.”

“I’m sure that went over well.”

“He got away, but it was a near thing. St. John employs a fair number of quite large and quite loyal thugs.”

“Thugs?”

“Goons. Brutes. Ruffians.”

“Okay, Thesaurus. Settle down.”

“Harvey, please. Anyway, there was a chase, gunplay, etcetera, etcetera. During the…fireworks, I guess one could call them, St. John implied that he intended to send Chuck to the same fate as ‘all the others.’ Chuck made it out in one piece, but his career was over and his boyfriend vanished. The police either didn’t believe his story or were bought off by St. John.”

“Hm. So he left town.”

“So he left town. No one knows what happened to the boyfriend, or to David Greaves. But I doubt that they were so lucky.”

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

Mike lost track of time as he waited for St. John to return. He could hear the wind rush and whine outside the house and the loud drumming of the rain. Although chilled by the cool air in the bedroom, sweat covered Mike’s body, collecting at his temples and eyelids and chest and trickling down his skin as he concentrated on freeing his hands from the leather cuffs. His hands bent sharply at the wrists, aching from maintaining the unnatural angle for so long. His long fingers twisted and tugged, straining to stretch far enough to manipulate the buckles. So far, he’d managed to unfasten the first of three buckles on one wrist.

 _Two more. Just two more and the other wrist would be a breeze_.

Maddeningly, they eluded his grasp. He had nearly bitten his lower lip bloody with his efforts.

After St. John left him alone, he had waited quietly for perhaps an hour, replaying the bizarre scene with his tormentor. Mike could get behind a good Daddy kink with the right person, but this had been something else entirely. Whenever he shifted on the bed, trying to get more comfortable, the fiery pain in his back and thighs sprang back to life, reminding him of St. John’s earlier rage and apparent breakdown.

Eventually, his flimsy wall of denial crumbled as he admitted to himself that the situation went deeper than blackmail for sex. An unhinged, unpredictable St. John seemed far worse than the one Mike was used to, the ruthless, controlled man who had turned his life inside out. The consequences of calling off their agreement ran through his mind: humiliation, homeless Grammy, dismissal. At the moment, however, the need for self-preservation dominated his thoughts. Dealing with the fallout could come later.

So he began to pick at the buckles on the cuffs. He was patient and methodical to begin with, but as time passed and St. John’s imminent return seemed more and more likely, Mike grew frantic. The need to free himself and get the hell out of there drove him to twist and strain himself. He considered bending in half and throwing his legs behind his ears to see if his toes would do anything his fingers couldn’t. As it turned out, they couldn’t, but the second buckle finally slipped loose, followed soon after by the third and final buckle.

With one hand free, Mike had the second cuff unfastened in no time. He scrambled to the edge of the bed. As his feet hit the carpet and he tried to stand, he nearly slid to the floor in a heap. He stayed upright, but his vision blurred and he was forced to stand still for several seconds, blinking and blinking while he waited for the narrow tunnel in front of his eyes to expand once more.

When he’d regained his equilibrium, he shook out his wrists to get the circulation moving again, and then looked around the room for his clothes. Surprisingly, they sat just where he had left them, folded neatly and place on a straight-backed chair in the corner. He pulled on his boxer briefs, shoved one foot into his trousers and nearly tripped and fell as he heard the muffled sound of voices in the hallway.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” He repeated the word, steady as a metronome, earnest as a mantra, even as he shuffled and hopped and heard something tear as he wrestled his pants up his legs and over his hips. He imagined he could now hear footsteps approaching along the carpeted hall. Fighting panic, he snatched up his shirt and ran for the sliding glass door that opened onto the balcony. He wrenched it open and a blast of wind and stinging rain slammed into him, nearly tumbling him back into the bedroom. Leaning forward, he fought his way through the door, turned and pushed it closed. At that moment, the door that led to the hallway opened and Mike spun sideways and scuttled along the wall to the far edge of the balcony.

Although he was not visible from the bedroom, he knew that St. John, or whoever had entered the room, would see immediately that he was gone, and the balcony was the most logical place to begin looking for him. His shirt snapped and fluttered where he had it clutched in his fist. Already chilled by the wind, Mike shrugged into the shirt, fastened several buttons with stiff fingers, and peered over the edge of the balcony. The wet lawn did not look impossibly far below him, so he knelt, turned with his back to the edge and inched closer, looking for something to hold onto.

Each gust of wind brought with it a sound close to a howl. Mike thought he heard the door opening, but couldn’t be sure. It was enough to motivate him to move faster. He dropped his legs over the side, clung to the wet surface with numb fingers, felt himself start to slide, took one panicked looked over his shoulder and let go.

His bare feet hit the ground with a jarring thud. He tried to bend his legs as he landed to absorb the impact, but one foot slid on the wet grass, skidding out from underneath him. He teetered, windmilling his arms. His second foot slipped and shot out in front of him and his ass hit the wet ground so hard his teeth rattled. By instinct, his hands went behind him to hold him up, but the rain-saturated ground proved too slick and the next thing he knew he lay flat on his back, staring up at the rain slanting past his face.

He shut his eyes. At that moment, part of him just wanted to lie there in the dark on the sodden grass and groan pathetically and feel sorry for himself. Another, more sensible part was screaming at him to get up and run like hell. After a brief struggle, Panicked Mike won out. He opened his eyes and tried to push himself up, but finally decided that rolling over onto his hand and knees worked better. From there, he staggered upright. One ankle gave a twinge, but supported his weight. He looked around, trying to orient himself, before deciding to circle the house until he found the patio where he had first seen St. John. He thought he could find his way to the main road from there.

Just then, brightness flooded the lawn. Someone had turned on the outside lights.

“I am so fucked,” he muttered, and started to run.


	8. Chapter 8

The shouts behind Mike faded as he raced toward the water, sliding and skidding across the wet grass.  He’d quickly run beyond the reach of the outside lights, but now only flat lawn stretched in front of him, offering no hiding places.  Although the wind still blew steadily, buffeting him with fiercer bursts every so often, the rain had subsided to a thin drizzle.  Through the shifting clouds, he could see that the sky had begun to lighten.  Within minutes, he would be easily visible from the house.

The layout of the property was clear in his memory from his flyovers in the helicopter.  About a quarter mile to his left, a row of poplars lined the border of St. John’s property, running from shortest near the road to tallest at the edge of the bluff that overlooked the rocky beach below.  A scatter of leaves had clung to the branches the first time he saw them, but those had fallen away and the trees were bare now, and would provide only meager concealment, but they were better than nothing.  His mind rapidly calculated the distance and his speed, and he was certain that he wouldn’t reach the trees before St. John or one of his men spotted him.  So he sprinted for the beach instead, reasoning that a detour there would allow him to climb down and stay out of sight while he made his way toward the cover of the trees.

A searchlight swept over the lawn to his right.  Mike cursed and ran faster, ignoring the pain in his back and the thigh muscle which felt as if he had pulled it when he dropped off the balcony.  His breath rasped in his throat and freezing rain stung his eyes.  Almost before he realized it, the edge of the bluff was practically under him.  He dug in his heels to slow himself, took a panicked look over his shoulder, and threw himself to the ground as the searchlight passed him, just a few feet away.

“Fuck,” he breathed.  “What next?  Release the fucking hounds?”  He raised his head a couple of inches and crawled forward to the edge of the bluff, and then scrambled back in alarm as the thinnest portion crumbled and slid down to the beach below, no doubt loosened by the rain.  He glanced back at the house.  In the dim light of morning, he could make out at least three figures.  They didn’t seem to be heading directly for him, but it wouldn’t be long before they figured out where he’d gone.

He raised his head again to scan his surroundings and nearly moaned with relief as he spotted a narrow wooden stairway leading down to the beach.  With another furtive look behind him, he crabwalked a few feet to his right before muttering, “fuck it.”  Pushing to his feet, he broke into a run while bent at the waist, until he reached the top of the stairs.

Once he had moved below the sight line of the lawn, he sped up, sliding from one slick tread to the next, heels bumping, knees jarring.  Ten feet from the bottom, he tried to slow his descent, overbalanced, and ended up launching himself face first into the sand and smooth rocks below.

He lay still, wondering if his neck was broken, wiggled his finger and toes, sat up and determined that he was in one piece, although he’d added to his collection of aches and bruises.  When he struggled to his feet, his knee wobbled and his hand stung where he had scraped it on the splintery wood railing, but he was alive and mobile and moments later he was limping up the beach, exhausted and shivering, rain-slick shirt sticking to his back and chest, and his bare feet all but numb to the feel of the rocks underneath them.

As he progressed down the beach with his head down, the sky continued to lighten.  After several minutes he raised his head and saw that a hundred yards or so ahead, barnacle-rough rocks jutted into the water, blocking further progress beyond that point.  Perhaps when the tide was out, the beach was passable, but right now, he had three choices:  go back the way he’d come, start swimming, or climb.

 _Or lie down and give up,_ he reminded himself.  _Four choices._

An image of Harvey’s disappointed face entered his mind, the tight, sad expression he wore when Mike made some nearly unforgivable blunder.  Mike would do almost anything not to be the cause of that expression again, so he tipped his face up, blinked cold rain from his eyelashes and considered the ascent.  Not as steep at this end of the property, the slope offered exposed rock and lacy woven roots as possible handholds.  It was also soaked with rain and likely slippery as a sheet of ice.

The wind carried a harsh shout to him from some distant point above and behind him.  Spurred into action again by a surge of adrenaline and raw fear, Mike crawled on top of a fallen log that had washed up on the beach and wedged itself against the bottom of the bluff.  His bare feet started to slide, and he gripped with his toes and reached up, straining to reach a protruding boulder that looked well-anchored.

As he climbed, one precarious hand and foothold at a time, he was reminded of the time Trevor talked him into attempting a climbing wall.  He couldn’t remember where it was, just that he’d been stoned at the time and kept sliding back to the ground, over and over until his stomach ached from laughing so hard.  They’d both been asked to leave before he managed to break anything, and he’d concluded that rock climbing was not in his future.

Now, as he clung to the muddy cliff face, he wished he had taken the experience a little more seriously.  Not that it would have prepared him for the stinging rain, slick surface, extremities nearly devoid of sensation, and blasts of wind which seemed determined to pry him free and send him crashing to the ground below.

“This sucks ass,” he gasped.  As he climbed and slid…climbed and slid… the temptation grew to dissolve into hysterical laughter, just as he had all those years ago, to let gravity have its ungentle way with him.  “My life,” he wheezed, “is ridiculous.”  And then he stopped talking and just clawed his way upwards.  He wished he could turn back the clock and tell Louis to go fuck himself, or take the opportunity to confess everything to Harvey.

The rain came down harder and the mud grew slicker.  Luckily, available handholds appeared with greater frequency.  The number of exposed tree roots multiplied and Mike dared to hope this meant that he had managed to reach the row of trees at the property line.  A surge of energy had him climbing faster, numb fingers scrabbling to grasp clumps of flimsy, fibrous tendrils and woody, finger-thin shoots.  He moved quickly, reasoning that if he didn’t allow his weight to settle in one spot for too long, he could avoid ripping the network of roots free from the saturated soil and hurtling to the beach below.

He chanced another look up, freezing rain sluicing down his face to drip from his chin to his soaked shirt.  The top of the bluff was nearly in reach and the angle of the slope grew easier.  Now he could almost stand.  He bent at the waist, reaching for handholds which seemed more and more reliable.  His bare feet shuffled and skimmed over the sucking mud, catching in tangled roots which threatened to send him sprawling.  Then one hand reached up and met only air and rain.  Lowering the hand tentatively, he encountered trimmed grass.

He paused, listening.  All he heard was the surf below him, the rain and the wind.  Slowly, he inched up further and poked his head above ground level to peer around him.  It had grown light enough to see across the lawn, despite the black clouds above and the slanting rain.  The row of trees loomed a few yards away.  He ignored his shivering with an act of pure will, although he knew he needed to get out of the rain and somewhere warm before hypothermia set in.  He moved one foot forward, found a sturdy root to support it, dragged the other foot up.

Another tremor shook him.  “Keep it together,” he muttered.  One knee made it to the level surface of the lawn as a stronger tremor overtook him, accompanied by a faint rumbling which began to grow into a roar.  “What the fuck?”

He felt the ground under his lower foot shift a second before the entire slope started to slide away.  “Shit!”  Pushing off with his foot and reaching out with his hands to grab for the grass, damp soil, whatever he could reach, he vaulted onto the flat surface of the lawn.  Starting in a low crouch, he straightened and tried to run at the same time, feeling the ground give way behind him.  The roar grew deafening as he gained momentum, racing toward the nearby tree line.  Awed and terrified, he watched the two trees closest to the edge slide away in the liquid surge of mud.

He kept running until the ground stopped shaking, and then he staggered and his shoulder slammed into one of the standing trees, bouncing him sideways to collapse to the ground as his knees seemed to turn as liquid as the ground.  Breathing in painful gasps, he shifted until he sat with his back against the coarse tree trunk and stared back the way he had come.

Mike blinked rain out of his eyes, struggling to understand what had happened and what he was seeing.  Several yards of lawn were missing, carried away by what he now realized was a landslide.  Despite the anchoring roots, the heavy rain must have proved too much for the soil to take.  He shivered at the thought of how close he had come to being buried alive, and felt his reserves of energy leach out of him.  His head went back to rest against the tree while he stared dully ahead of him.  In that moment, St. John and all the loyal employees money could buy might have approached him and he wouldn’t have been able to move as much as a finger.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled vaguely.  He wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to, although a flash of Harvey’s scowling face hovered in front of him for half a second.  Mike almost smiled.  Harvey was always scowling at him, except for when he wasn’t…except for when Mike managed to coax that tiny grin out of his boss that flickered just at the edges of his mouth…his beautiful mouth that Mike had fantasized about so often.

He sighed and let his eyes drift shut.  Cold metal and bark dug into his back but he didn’t have the strength to move.  He was so tired, so cold.  Maybe he should stand up and start walking, get the hell out of here.  His limbs felt as if they had been encased in cement.  Forcing his eyes open, he took one last look at the edge of the lawn.  He blinked, trying to clear his eyes.  Something jutted out of the disturbed earth.

It wasn’t a root or a tree branch.

“Huh.”

Curiosity gave his leaden body a sluggish ooze of energy.  He struggled away from the tree, fighting inertia, dropped to his hands and knees and crawled several feet, careful not to get too close to the unstable edge.  As he approached the strange, pale protrusion, the rain obligingly slowed to the barest drizzle and all at once he had a clear view of the torso and skull of a corpse, packed with dirt and nearly devoid of flesh.  Tatters of rotted cloth clung to a ribcage punctured by the branch of one of the trees that had been standing just moments earlier. 

Eyes wide, Mike crept closer, horrified and mesmerized by what the landslide had shook loose.  The cloth resolved into what he was sure must once have been a necktie.  He’d been cold before, but his internal temperature seemed to drop a few more degrees as he continued to advance.  His knee pressed on something sharp and Mike grunted, backing up an inch.  He dug in the dirt and pulled up a metal rectangle still attached by one loose nail to a hunk of tree bark.  Rubbing the rectangle against his shirt, he wiped most of the mud away from the surface and revealed one word:  “James.”

“James,” he whispered out loud, his gaze drifting back to the corpse.  “Is that you?  Who the hell were you?”

He remembered the feel of metal digging into his back and his eyes widened.  Scrambling back to his resting spot, his fingers found the brass plate, twin to the one he held in his hand.  “Martin.”  Sick suspicion twisted through his gut.  He lurched to his feet, steadied himself against the tree trunk until his head stopped spinning, and propelled himself forward down the nearly straight line of trees.  As he had originally noted, the height of the trees decreased the further away he moved from the edge of the bluff.  Each and every tree had a nameplate hammered into the trunk and Mike stored every name in his flawless memory.

He was breathing hard by the time he reached the final tree and he had to lean against it to marshal his strength before squatting to wipe moisture away.  The name on the last tree was David.

A shiver went through his slender frame which had nothing to do with the cold, and he realized that he had been half-expecting to find the name Michael bolted to the tree.  He felt sick with both relief and dread.  His legs kept trembling and behaving as if they didn’t want to support him any longer.  His brain screamed at him to run, to get the fuck out of there. 

He heard a shout and turned to see St. John and three of his employees racing across the wide lawn in his direction.  Even from this distance he could see their handguns.  “Fuck,” he breathed, and shoved away from the “David” tree and began a tottering, weaving run in what he prayed was the direction of the main road.

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

“We can’t just sit here.  Who knows what that psycho douche bag is doing to Mike?”

Harvey and Vanessa had been arguing for nearly twenty minutes about the best course of action.

“Harvey, use your head.  There are only the two of us.  We have no clue how many men St. John has with him.”

“Then we just drive up and knock on the front door.  I’ll say I have some briefs to review with him.”

Vanessa shot him an impatient glare.  “Oh, right.  Like you would actually drive all the way out here in the middle of a storm.  On a Saturday, no less.  St. John may not be the genius he’d like the world to think he is, but I think even he could see through that ruse.”

Harvey sighed and ground the heel of his hand into one eye.  “Fine.  I’ll sneak around to the side of the property and find a way in.  I’ll hunt around for Mike, grab him and get him the hell out of there.”

“You’ll sneak in.  Uh huh.”  Her voice was insultingly dubious.

“I can sneak.”  He met her skeptical gaze for a moment before looking away.  “Remind me to tell you about my misspent youth some time.”  He could feel her still staring at him and it made him surly.  “Well, I don’t hear you suggesting anything better.”

“You’ve hardly given me the chance.  If you had, we could already be putting my cunning plan into action.”

“Go ahead, Baldrick.  I’m all ears.”

Vanessa pulled out her phone.  “I’ll find the nearest Kinko’s, or some other place where we can print out a fake subpoena that you can whip up on my iPad while I drive.”

“You want to drive my baby?  Not liking this plan so far.”

“Then,” she continued, slightly louder, “I’ll call a few friends of mine to meet us out here.  I’ll pretend to serve the papers on St. John – ”

“Wait, wait, wait.  Just how long is all of this going to take?  We don’t have time to stage some amateur theater production here.”

Vanessa opened her mouth to respond, but froze as the sharp, unmistakable sounds of gunfire erupted from the direction of St. John’s property.

Harvey had his door open before he’d even thought about what he intended to do.  Vanessa was just as fast.  He felt her hand on his arm as he rounded the car.

“Slow down, Harvey,” she hissed.  “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He glanced down at her, annoyed, but paused at the sight of the enormous handgun she had produced from God knew where.  “Van?” he said, surprised and impressed.

“What?  I have a permit.  Come on.”  She pulled him behind the car and crouched beside him, listening.  Harvey started to say something, but she shushed him.

Another burst of gunfire came, closer this time.

Harvey vibrated with impatience.  “I’m not going to just huddle back here, Van.”

“Okay.  Keep your voice down.  When I say go, head for that tree line, and keep low.  I’ll be right behind you.”

Every instinct told Harvey they were running out of time, but he trusted Vanessa, so he waited.  He felt her tense beside him and readied himself to break for the trees.  Just then, a slender figure appeared, heading in their direction at high speed, but weaving almost drunkenly.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vanessa raise her weapon.

“Wait,” he barked.  “That’s Mike.”

“I see him.”  Later, Harvey would marvel at how calm she sounded.  “Go help him while I give those guys something to think about.”

Harvey nearly jumped out of his skin as her gun boomed less than a foot from his ear.  “Fuck!”  It didn’t slow him down, though.  He took off in a diagonal line for Mike, calling his name.  Mike stumbled, stopped, and turned to gape almost comically at Harvey.

“Ah, shit,” Harvey muttered.  Then, louder, “Keep moving, kid!”

As always, Mike did his best to follow Harvey’s orders.  His direction changed and he staggered toward Harvey, but his legs didn’t appear to be working properly.  Shots sounded somewhere behind Mike as Harvey reached him.  He took half a second to register the fact that Mike was barefoot, his clothes were drenched and torn, his hair was plastered to his head, and he was covered with mud.  Then he had his arm around him and under his shoulders and was supporting and dragging him towards his car.

A bullet whizzed by too close.  Mike sagged like a marionette with half its strings cut.  “Run!” Harvey grated.  “Move that sweet little ass now, or you’re fired.”

With a sound halfway between a wheeze and a sob, Mike straightened and seemed to pull up some reserve of strength.  Harvey’s free hand gripped Mike’s bicep like a vise and they raced for the car.  Harvey unceremoniously shoved Mike into the cramped space behind the seats.

“Van!  Get in.”

Two doors slammed as he and Vanessa dropped into their seats.  Running figures appeared in the rain.  Vanessa’s gun boomed from where she held it out the open passenger window.  Harvey put the car in gear and shot down the road, feeling the exhilarating drag of g-force.

“Christ,” Vanessa gasped, pulling her arm back inside the car.

“Zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds.”  Harvey spared her a quick glance and might have laughed at the sight of her pressed back against the seat, except he was too focused on putting distance between them and the armed men who were shooting at them, while at the same time trying to get a good look at Mike in the rearview mirror so he could assess his condition.  “You okay back there?  Mike?”

“Your car is really small,” came a weak voice.  A moment later, a wet, filthy face appeared between the two front seats, blue eyes wide and blinking.  “Hi,” Mike said to Vanessa.  “Wow.  You’re pretty.  Nice gun.”

Harvey started to laugh, but Mike wasn’t done talking, voice thin and shaky as he rambled.

“Shit, Harvey.  I’m getting your car all dirty.”  He sighed.  “I’m really tired.”  And then, so softly that Harvey had to strain to hear him, “I have to tell you something…there was a landslide and it unburied James.  Under the trees…Martin and Joseph and Simon and…I know all the names…David…David’s the last.  Or Michael.  Mike.  Here.  I found this.”  He shifted and something clanked into the space between Harvey and Vanessa.  “Just gonna close my eyes for a minute.”  His head wobbled and he collapsed into the backseat.

Harvey glanced over at Vanessa to find her staring down at what looked like a brass nameplate.  “Did you understand any of that?” he asked her.

Face grim, she turned the piece of flat metal towards him.

“James,” he read.  “Okay.  So?”

“So,” she said, “ten years ago James Milton sued St. John and settled out of court.  No one knows where he is now.  Martin Firland threatened to sue and disappeared a few years later.  Same with Joseph Donalson.  And Simon Bright was Donalson’s attorney.  He supposedly got fed up with his profession and entered a monastery in Oregon.  Chuck says the monks never heard of him.  And the last name?  David.  David Greaves?  Are you getting this, Harvey?”

“He’s named his trees?”

“Mike said that a landslide unburied James.  And this thing – ” she turned the nameplate around and shook it at Harvey “ – this thing was nailed to a tree to mark the spot where James Milton was buried.”  She picked up her phone and started dialing.  “The police need to get out there straight away.”

“Ah.”  He got it.  As crazy as it sounded, Harvey understood.  His gaze flicked up to the rearview mirror.  “Mike?  They’ll need you to show them where you found that body.”  No answer.  “Mike?  You still with us?”  Shit.  “Vanessa.  Would you check on him?”

“No,” she was saying into her phone, “this is not a prank.  Yes, you heard me correctly.  The estate of Sandor St. John.  My source says that they’re underneath the trees at the west end of his property.  That’s right.  A landslide.  Maybe a dozen.  And he has several armed men with him.  Yes.  Right.  Okay.”  She hung up.  “We’re meeting them there.”

“I don’t think so.”  He’d been trying to watch Mike in the mirror.  He was too still, too pale under all that mud.  Something dark flowed down his side and to the floor.  It didn’t look like either mud or water.

“Harvey.  They’re not just going to swarm in there on the strength of one phone call.”

“I think Mike’s bleeding.”  His voice was calm, and sounded strange and unreal in his ears.  “Get on your phone and find me the closest hospital.”

To Vanessa’s credit, she switched mental gears as swiftly as Harvey’s car had accelerated.  She found a hospital and called ahead to let them know they were coming in with a gunshot wound.  And then she contorted her body, twisting around and folding so she could lean into the back of the car and put pressure on Mike’s wound.

Every nerve in Harvey’s body strained with tension as he navigated the wet roads towards North Bay Hospital.  “How far?” he snapped at Vanessa.

“Two more miles.  Take a left here.  Shit!  Try to keep all your tires on the road.  Okay.  Straight ahead.”

The hospital didn’t look like much, more like an obsolete elementary school than a modern medical facility.  He spotted the red Emergency sign and pulled around to the side, skidding to an abrupt halt.  He pressed down on the horn and kept his hand there.  Moments later, the door flew open and a gurney appeared, propelled by a cluster of hospital personnel who looked reassuringly capable as they extracted Mike from the car and whisked him inside.  Harvey got out of the car, but Vanessa grabbed his arm and stopped him before he could follow.

“Give me your keys,” she said.

Mike’s blood, still wet, stained the front of her light grey anorak.  Harvey stared at the garish red, his mind gone blank.  The feel of Vanessa’s fingers tightening on him brought his gaze back to her face and he was both embarrassed and grateful for the concerned warmth he read there.

“Where you going?” he asked, although he had already guessed.

“Back to St. John’s.  Someone needs to meet the police and convince them to have a look around.”

“They’ll need a warrant.  He’ll never let them on his property without one.”

“I’ll take care of it.  You stay with Mike.”

Harvey opened his mouth to respond, to tell her she was kidding herself if she thought the police would take on St. John with only her secondhand account to convince them.  Before he could speak, she had pulled away from the curb, leaving him standing under the dripping overhang.  He turned and looked through the glass doors.  Mike had already disappeared, swept up in the efficient machinery of emergency medicine.  He should go inside and handle any paperwork or questions they had about Mike.

He hesitated, thinking of St. John deflecting the police, laughing off the improbable claims of Mike and Vanessa.  He could already picture the rapid excavation and removal of evidence, and the inevitable backlash against Mike and Harvey and Pearson Hardman.  St. John would walk away again, unscathed and free to continue his crimes.  He would win and Mike – and Harvey – would lose.

Harvey hated to lose.

Without really considering what he was doing, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone, found St. John’s number and hit “call.” 

St. John picked up on the third ring.  “Well, hello, Harvey.”  The raspy voice was amused.  Wind and the beat of rain sounded clearly in the background.  “Imagine my surprise.  To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Normally Harvey would have easily matched the light, bantering tone, but his anger and anxiety over Mike’s condition made him disinclined to play the usual game.  “Since I’m still your attorney, at least for another five minutes or so, I wanted to give you some advice.  You’ve probably discovered by now that this storm has obligingly uncovered things you would prefer stay hidden, and now another storm – a monumental shit storm, actually – is headed your way.  So here’s what you’re going to do.  You’re going to leave Mike alone, you’re going to leave his grandmother alone, and you’re going to find another law firm and take your filthy business there.”

“Really?”  St. John laughed.  “Gosh, Harvey.  So dramatic.  Does this shtick normally work for you?  I’d think with your obscenely high hourly rate, your clients would expect you to come up with something more original.  Or at least more compelling.  Oh, wait.  Am I supposed to be intimidated?  _Please_.  Smarter men than you have tried to go down that road, and where are they now?”

“Thanks to Mike, I know exactly where they are, and what their names are.  Pretty soon the police will know too.”

“Who…the local cops?  I wouldn’t count on it.  Folks around here practically worship me.  Go figure.  Could be all the money that flows into the local economy when I’m around.”

It was Harvey’s turn to laugh.  “Something’s flowing here, that’s for sure.  But are you so sure of your cop buddies?  You really think they’ll ignore a dozen bodies buried underneath your poplar trees?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but they won’t find a damn thing.  The question is, how much credibility will your slutty little associate have after wrongly accusing me of something so ridiculous? ”   

“No, the real question is, how long will it take you to dig up all those bodies and move them somewhere else?  And do you really think you can accomplish that while under surveillance by the local police?  You have to know that a warrant is only a judge’s signature away, in any case.  And if you still believe the police will look the other way, how about the media?  They haven’t had any juicy celebrity scandals to sink their teeth into lately.  You’re nothing but fresh meat to them, and I’ll make sure they get a good strong whiff of blood.”

Harvey had made more elegant bluffs in his career, but St. John’s protracted silence told him he had finally scored a direct hit.

He could hear St. John’s harsh breathing, punctuated occasionally by the loud drip of water.  When St. John spoke again, the amusement had disappeared from his voice.  “I can’t say I care much for your advice.  I’ll take the warning, though.  To tell you the truth, I am suddenly feeling in need of a little time away.  I’d chat longer, but it seems I’ve got some packing to do.”

“Now you’re catching on.”

“But listen carefully, Specter,” St. John hissed darkly.  “This is far from over.  You and that little whore had better watch your backs.  You’ll both be sorry you ever fucked with me.  All I need is a computer and Internet access.”

“Aww…don’t go away mad, Sandy.”  Harvey would have said more, but the line went abruptly dead as St. John hung up on him.  He laughed without humor and watched as a sobbing child was carried into the ER cradled in her father’s arms.

He sighed, shifting his shoulders to ease the tension that had settled there.  He suspected that St. John was right about one thing.  It wasn’t over yet.  A chill ran through him at the thought of St. John somewhere in the world seated in front of computer like a malignant spider, destroying lives thousands of miles away.  He couldn’t worry about that right now.  He needed to take care of Mike and make sure he was going to be okay.  Vanessa could handle the police, and they had gained some breathing room with St. John’s departure.

He turned and the glass doors slid silently open.  Allowing himself a brief, faint smile, he went to check on Mike. 


	9. Chapter 9

When Mike finally pried his eyes open, the face hovering over him was blurry.  And bearded.  He struggled to sit, but half a dozen hands pressed him down and he groaned.  He hurt everywhere.

“Hold still, Mr. Ross,” said the bearded face.  “Have a little patience, and as soon as we get a better look at your injuries, we’ll give you something for the pain.”

 _Injuries?_

Mike squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember.  He’d been cold and wet, running from someone…St. John.  Then Harvey had appeared as if summoned by Mike’s desires…or beamed in like Captain Kirk.  A hoarse giggle erupted, cut off abruptly when a hot burst of pain spiked through him as he was turned and prodded.

Someone muttered something about a “through and through.”

The words pinged and ponged around his brain while he idly wondered what had happened to his clothes.  Something cool and wet touched the crook of his arm, followed by a sting and a surge of cold through his veins.  The already fuzzy world grew rapidly fuzzier.

He lifted his free arm and grabbed for the nearest expanse of burgundy scrubs.  His arm seemed to wobble like overcooked pasta, but he managed to make contact, clutching at the coarse material and pulling.

“Sir,” said a tensely patient contralto voice, “calm down.  Doctor, could you…I can’t…”

His fingers didn’t seem completely attached to his hand, but he could still feel as they were pulled, digit by digit, from whatever he had latched onto.

“Harvey,” he croaked.  “Where’s Harvey?”  Maybe he had dreamed Harvey, though.  Things grew vague and cottony.  He closed his eyes, exhausted, barely registering the hands that continued to examine him, but still hearing the murmurs.

 _“Must be the guy that brought him in…ligature marks…welts on the back and buttocks…definitely a GSW…lost a lot of blood…better inform the police and find this Harvey…questions…”_

Mike was hazily trying to make sense of the words and piece them all together, but it became more and more difficult to focus, and finally he gave up the struggle and relaxed into the welcoming grey.

 

***

 

The next time Mike managed to lift his eyelids, he found himself alone in a small room, lying on a narrow bed, smothered in blankets and shivering.  One arm itched, and something sticky pulled uncomfortably at the hairs near his elbow.  He frowned, trying to decide if it was worth the energy to do something about the irritation, and then jumped as a band on his other arm suddenly tightened, squeezing and squeezing, making him wince, and then releasing.  Behind him, something dinged and bleeped.

He blinked rapidly until the room came into focus and he recognized the blood pressure cuff and the IV.  Tracing the line to its source, he frowned at the sight of a bag of some unknown liquid emptying itself into him.  What had happened?

Mike furrowed his brows and tried to remember.  He had been with St. John.  Oh, right.  The man had freaked him out with his bizarre behavior.  Mike had taken off and run, and…oh shit, he’d fucked up.  He needed to call the nursing home and check on Grammy.  A glance around the tiny room revealed no phone, and Mike realized that he must not be in a private room.  An ER, maybe?

The door to the room was open.  Just then, a nurse or tech hurried down the hall.  Mike pushed himself into almost a sitting position, fighting with the blankets.

“Hey,” called Mike, his voice weak.  “Hello?”  There was no response and he sank back, panting.  Where were his clothes?  Maybe he could find his cell phone.  No.  He must have left it at St. John’s house.

The blood pressure cuff began to tighten again, startling him again.  A gurney rolled past his doorway carrying a half-reclining woman who looked terrified and glassy-eyed.  Mike tried to get the orderly’s attention, but his faint, “Excuse me,” went unanswered and he sank back dispiritedly.  “Jesus,” he muttered, “health care in America….”

He twitched restlessly for a few moments, wincing at the throbbing ache in his side and wishing someone would spare a second or two to send some more painkillers his way.  He froze mid-twitch as he suddenly remembered his wet, muddy escape, the terrifying climb and even more terrifying landslide which had uncovered…. _Oh shit.  Oh fuck_.  A body.  And those trees, marking more graves.

Was that true, though?  Had he just leapt to that conclusion on the strength of one unearthed corpse and a series of plaques nailed to some trees?  How long had St. John owned the house?  Maybe the previous owner was responsible for the dead man, and the trees…perhaps St. John or somebody else simply liked to name their trees?

 _Yeah, right…because that’s normal._

A nurse appeared in the doorway.  Mike started to push into a sitting postion, and then groaned at the chain reaction of pain his movement set off in his abused body.  He decided that staying prone was a perfectly acceptable alternative.

“You’re awake,” she said, sounding surprised and a little disapproving.  “How are you feeling?”

“I feel…I don’t know.”  He glanced up at the IV stand.  “What….”  He couldn’t seem to raise the volume of his voice above a rough whisper.  “Why?  What is that stuff?”

She paused for half a second on the way to his side, regarding him with bemusement, her head tilted to one side, before stepping to the head of the bed to check the IV.  “You don’t remember?”

“I’m…I was running.”

“You were shot.”

 _Huh?_   “But I’m….”

“You’re going to be just fine.  The bullet passed through your side, and managed not to hit anything important on the way.  You lost a bit of blood.  And you were pretty dehydrated and borderline hypothermic.  Dr. Vail wanted wait for the IV to finish.  Then he’ll stop by and check on you again before we get you admitted.  I’m Gwen, by the way.  How’s your pain level?”

“I, uh.  What?”

“Scale of one to ten, Mike.”

He thought hard.  Probably about a seven, but he really wanted some more of the good stuff.  “Eight and half?”

She nodded.  “The doctor has authorized more pain meds.  You’ll feel better in a minute.”

Mike drifted a little, trying to think, while she busied herself with injecting something into the IV port.  “Um,” he said intelligently.

“Yes?”  Gwen noted something in his chart and then paused, tilting her head and waiting for him to continue.

“How did I get here?”

Was it his imagination, or did her mouth suddenly tense with what appeared to be barely concealed disdain?

“You’re… _friend_ brought you in.  We thought it was a dump and run at first.”  He must have made a face, because she blushed.  “No offense.  It’s just what we call it.  We brought you inside, but he didn’t follow until later.”

“Oh.”  He gave Gwen a worried glance.  “Is he still here?”

She was watching something behind him and above his head.  Mike twisted around to see what it was, muzzily pleased that his body didn’t seem to care as much as it might have a few minutes earlier.  He saw the readouts for his heart rate and blood pressure and other numbers his mind couldn’t quite process.

Gwen frowned at the display, and then frowned at Mike.  “Try to relax,” she said.

“Where is he now?”

“Where is who now?”

“Harvey.  The man who brought me in.”

Another glance at the display of his vitals, and Gwen shook her head in disapproval.  “You don’t need to worry.  He’s not allowed in here.  I think the police are still questioning him.”

“What?”  The edges of his vision blurred and he blinked once, twice, and then closed his eyes.  He opened them again with an effort.  “Wanna see Harvey.”  Had he said that out loud?  The words had no visible effect on the nurse, who continued to move around the room, so he tried again.  “Harvey is…I like Harvey.  Gwen?  Gwen Gwen Gwen…you’re name’s weird.”

“All right.”

“Gwen.”  He drew out the sounds.  “Ga-wennnnnn.”  Then he smiled at her so she wouldn’t take offense.  “I’m serious.  I need to talk to him.”

She patted his arm.  “Just close your eyes and let the drugs do their work.  When you feel stronger I’m sure you’ll realize you’re well rid of him.”

“What?  No no no.  You’re confused.”

Gwen’s lips thinned and he heard her tongue click.  “I’m no psychologist, but even I can see that this is not a healthy relationship.”

“See?”  He squinted up at her, trying to bring her into focus.

“We’re trained to recognize the physical signs of abuse.  No, Mike, just lie back.  You’re safe now.  That’s it.  Close your eyes.”

Her words made no sense, so Mike gave up the struggle to talk and gave the drugs free reign to fuzz out his world again. 

 

***

 

“So, Mr. Specter, you’re telling us that you and your lady friend just happened to ‘be in the neighborhood,’ as you put it, and stumbled across Mr. Ross, who just happens to work for you.”

The police detective sat across the coffee table from Harvey in the hospital’s waiting area, in a lumpy chair which Harvey sincerely hoped was every bit as spine-destroying as his own.  He lifted his paper cup and sipped the surprisingly tolerable hospital coffee, all the while keeping his half-disdainful, half-amused gaze on his interrogator, noting the faded jeans, black Henley, hooded blue parka, thick mustache darker than his receding blonde hair, and the shrewd, weary blue eyes looking back at him.  In Harvey’s peripheral vision, a young uniformed officer took notes, shifting in his seat every now and then and gulping as if the tension choking the air made it difficult for him to breathe.

At the moment they were the only three people seated in the waiting area.  Across the room a young woman in teal scrubs sat behind a counter talking on the phone.  The background noise of cable news droned from the television set bolted to the wall.

“As it happens, Detective Norquist,” said Harvey, “that’s just how it happened.”  He allowed himself a smirk at his ridiculous phrasing and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.  “If you have any specific questions, fire away.”

“What brought you and your… _associate_ …to Mr. St. John’s estate?”  He injected a hefty helping of slime into the word “associate,” all the while smirking back at Harvey.

Harvey bit back a sigh.  “Mr. St. John recently retained our firm to represent him in a pending lawsuit.  I drove out here to do a little face-to-face client relations, and I can only assume that Mike had the same idea.”

Norquist leaned forward, elbows on his knees and stared down at the beige carpet.  “Client relations.  Uh huh.  If that is, in fact, the truth, your young friend must truly suck at it.”

Harvey pursed his lips and shrugged.  “He’s young.  Still has a lot to learn.”

“Hm.  I’d have to agree with that, considering his efforts this morning ended up getting him shot.”

Harvey opened his mouth and closed it again.  For once he could think of nothing to say.

Still leaning forward, Norquist lifted his head and fixed Harvey with a flat, blue stare.  “You own a gun, Specter?”

Harvey paused with his coffee cup halfway to his lips.  “I do.  Several, in fact.  At this moment, however, they’re locked in a gun safe in my condo.  And since you seem to be insinuating that perhaps I shot my own associate, let me ask you a question in return.  Why in the hell would I do that?”

Norquist sat up straight, his mouth twisting scornfully.  “Maybe he objected to your managerial style.”

A puff of laughter escaped.  “Not likely.”

“Is that so?”  The blue gaze sharpened.  “You’re saying he was into all that – ” Norquist waved one hand in the air “ – all that…what do you folks call it…all that BDSM stuff?”

Harvey froze mid-breath, blinked, and then breathed out, feeling a faint chill invade him.  “I wouldn’t know.  Why do you ask?”

“You wouldn’t know, huh?  And I don’t suppose you know anything about the ligature marks on his wrists, or the welts all over his back?  Or the fading bruises and healing abrasions the doctors discovered in all sorts of interesting places?”

Nausea slithered through Harvey’s guts, accompanied by a fresh burst of anger as the extent of St. John’s abuse grew clearer.  He willed himself to keep all of that out of his voice.  “Mike is my associate.  That’s all.  We don’t have a physical relationship.  You’ll have to look somewhere else for the source of those marks.” 

Detective Norquist snorted.  “Don’t tell me.  Let me guess.  You’re going to tell me that Sandor St. John is the culprit?”

“You’d have to ask Mike about that.  While you’re at it, you might want to find out whether or not it was consensual.”  Harvey knew damn well that it wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to discuss that without Mike’s permission.

“Look, Specter…”

“What about the dead man buried on St. John’s property?  Has he been identified yet?”

“There is a small matter of a search warrant to be dealt with first.  Your lady friend has been very persuasive, so I’ve no doubt we’ll be able to check out your associate’s story soon enough.  Or I should say alleged story, since we haven’t been able to speak with him yet.  If we find a body – and I’d say that’s a big if – that doesn’t mean that St. John had anything to do with it.  As far as I know, the man only spends a few days a month out there.  And we haven’t been able to question him yet either, since it appears he left the premises shortly before we arrived.  You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Harvey kept his expression carefully blank, and refused to acknowledge the prick of guilt he felt at having given St. John the head start needed to avoid the police.  “Couldn’t tell you, even if I did.”

“Uh huh.  Right.  Attorney client privilege?”

Harvey had all but told St. John that he was withdrawing as his attorney, but it didn’t seem like a good time to bring that up.  So he nodded vaguely and glanced at his watch, surprised to find that it was barely ten o’clock in the morning.  He caught a flash of teal in his peripheral vision and looked over to see the receptionist staring up at the television set, a frown creasing her thin eyebrows.  The uniformed officer stood up abruptly, gave a surprised grunt and moved to stand next to the receptionist.  “Hey, Darlene, can you turn up the volume?” asked the officer.  Obligingly, she grabbed the remote from a nearby table and began fumbling with the controls.

Detective Norquist rolled his eyes and said with exaggerated patience, “Andy, we’ve talked about this.  You need to focus on what we’re doing here.”

Andy spared him only a brief glance before turning back to the news.  “You’d better take a look at this, Uncle Hank.”

“Damn it, Andy.  How many times do I have to tell you?  When we’re working it’s ‘Detective Norquist.’  Now sit your ass back down and let’s finish up.”

Just then, Darlene apparently found the correct button and the television blared with the sound of a woman’s breathless voice.  “…yet identified, eyewitnesses confirm it was St. John’s helicopter.  Here’s video of the crash again, as captured on a neighbor’s cell phone.”

Harvey didn’t remember standing, but the next thing he knew, he was in front of the television with Norquist at his shoulder, staring up at the “Breaking News” on CNN.  At first the picture was a study in shades of grey – grey ocean, grey skies, greenish-grey lawn, dark grey tree branches snapping and swaying in the wind, steeply slanted grey rain – but after a few seconds a darker, blurry object which he realized was a helicopter appeared from the right of the picture, above the lawn, lifting and angling towards the turbulent ocean.  One moment, the helicopter cut sharply through the sky, accelerating and ascending, and the next moment an errant gust of wind slammed into it, tipping it sideways and sending it into a brief freefall before it hit the water and disappeared with a faint, anticlimactic _glug_.

The agitated reporter babbled on, barely restraining herself from spewing a cascade of “OMG’s” (Harvey imagined), before the anchor replaced her on the screen, introducing a hastily rounded up aviation expert who launched into a lengthy, dry-as-dust lecture about wind gradient and outflow boundary and the inadvisability of taking off during a windstorm.  The graphic two-thirds of the way down the screen read, “Billionaire Sandor St. James Missing, Feared Dead.”

Harvey turned to find that Detective Norquist had moved off a few paces and was holding a quietly tense conversation on his cell phone.  While Harvey listened with half an ear to the television, he waited for Norquist to finish his conversation.  Finally, he hung up, and glanced over at Harvey, looking grimly amused.

“Well, Specter.  I guess you get your wish.”

A millisecond of shock.  “ _What?_ ” Harvey bit out.

“Evidently debris from the crash is already washing up on the beach.  We have an accident scene to secure, which gives us access to St. John’s property.  If there’s a body there, I’m sure we’ll manage to stumble across it.”

“Oh.”  Harvey thought rapidly.  “I take it you’re not arresting me?”

Norquist tugged at Andy’s sleeve, nearly causing him to lose his balance as he dragged him away from the television.  “Not at the moment.  We’ll see what Mr. Ross has to say once they get him patched up.  Do me a favor, though.  Stick around, in case I change my mind.”

“You bet.”

Norquist and Officer Andy left, and Harvey edged away from the small crowd which had gathered in front of the television set.  He sat down and watched the news story unfold from across the room.  No bodies had been recovered yet, but he had no doubt that St. John had been on the helicopter.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  He was relieved that Mike would no longer be threatened or abused by the man, guilty that he had apparently been the one who had driven St. John to take that ride, bleakly satisfied that an amoral asshole had left this world…all of that, and a little numb with disbelief besides.  No matter what he thought of him personally, St. John had been a towering, almost mythic public figure who had suddenly ceased to be.

His phone rang.  Vanessa.  He knew she must be calling to make sure he had heard the news.  His shoulders sagged with weariness.  He didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to think about St. John and his misdeeds.  Right now all he wanted to do was see Mike, make sure he was okay, talk to him, touch him, and reassure him that everything that had gone wrong in his life lately would be put to rights.  A frightening nurse named Gwen had already informed him that he would not be allowed into Mike’s room until “certain questions had been answered.”  If Norquist’s line of inquiry was any indication, those questions involved who had placed all of those marks on Mike.  At the moment, Harvey seemed to be their most likely candidate.

Under other circumstances, Harvey might have raised a stink, imposed his will, made people cry.  He nearly always found a way to get what he wanted.  Right now, he was strangely reluctant to face Mike.  Too many people had told him lately that he cared about Mike.  “Cared.”  Jesus, such an anemic little word, but still filled with too many landmines, too much potential to become entangled in other people’s messy little lives.

Here he sat, though, on a Saturday morning, way the hell out in Nowheresville, anxiously waiting for word on his shot up, beat up, apparently recently tied up, blackmailed, abused, infuriating, ridiculous, brilliant, eternally distracting…what?  Associate?  In truth, he couldn’t name him anything else, but he still hadn’t hesitated to race out here to pull his ass out of the fire.

He slumped in his chair, disgruntled and scowling.  His phone rang again and this time it was Jessica.  Fucking hell.  No way could he ignore Jessica, but neither could he give her the full truth, particularly the parts that involved Mike.  Heaving an aggrieved sigh, he answered the phone, preparing to lie his ass off.


	10. Chapter 10

Another awakening. A different room. Mike floated in a bleary sort of lassitude, tempted to drift back down into sleep or unconsciousness or wherever it was he’d been. As he began to surface, he couldn’t remember what had happened, why he was here, where he was. That, more than curiosity, jolted him wide awake.

He couldn’t _remember._

Had that ever happened before?

Panic gripped him for several paralyzing seconds while he took stock of his situation. He knew his name. Good start. He remembered that, a eHegainst all odds, he was an attorney at Pearson Hardman. Ignoring the throbbing, muffled pain in his side and the not so muffled agony in his head, he trawled through his memories and called up chapter three of his ninth grade biology textbook, every IM he had received from Trevor in 2009, and the Stonefield brief that he had reviewed less than a month ago, accessing these things as effortlessly as always.

Reassured, he relaxed his tense muscles and considered his surroundings. Hospital room. Half-open blinds revealing a stormy sky and sheets of rain. Across from him, the wall held a clock that read three thirty, and a television with the sound turned down, set to what looked like CNN. A second bed in the room lay empty.

He lifted the single blanket that covered him and pulled the faded hospital gown aside so he could examine the dressing on his side. Biting his lip, he unstuck some of the tape and lifted the bandage, wincing at the sight of a wound that he suddenly remembered came from a bullet fired at him by St. John or one of his…henchman? Helpless, appalled laughter erupted from him, despite the pain it caused awakened and multiplied. How had he mismanaged his life to such an extent that it now included evil geniuses and their evil henchman?

As he continued to laugh, his side began to throb more insistently. He patted the dressing back into place, fighting to control the undignified giggles that rippled through him. “Oh, god. _Henchmen_. Just like some fucking Batman villain.”

“I hope that’s the drugs talking, Rookie. After all the time I’ve invested in you, I’d hate to think you’ve become unhinged.”

Harvey stood in the doorway, cell phone in one hand, finger poised as if in mid-text. His face held the look that never failed to fascinate Mike, somehow managing to frown while simultaneously appearing pleased and a little smug.

“Harvey,” he breathed, struggling to sit up.

“Hey, hey, settle down. You’re supposed to be resting. I had enough trouble getting in to see you. I don’t need more accusations thrown at me.”

Mike lay back gratefully. The drugs might be making him loopy, but they weren’t doing much for his pain levels at the moment. Still, he couldn’t stop the smile that broke out on his face. “Henchman,” he said, grinning at Harvey’s confused expression. “Just…it’s a funny…never mind. What are you doing here? And…wait. Accusations?”

Harvey tucked his phone into his coat pocket and sat in the chair next to Mike’s bed. “Yes. Hmm.” He glanced up at the television and back down at Mike. “You just woke up?”

He sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. Mike frowned. “What are you being accused of? Besides an excess of awesomeness, of course.” Immediately, he wished he could take back that last part.

Harvey didn’t seem to notice his gushing. His only answer was to reach for Mike’s wrist. Mike flinched at the contact, but looked on wonderingly when Harvey lifted his hand and ran a finger around the abrasions and new and old bruises on his wrist. “Of this.”

Mike flushed and pulled his arm free, hiding it under the blanket.

Sober brown eyes regarded Mike. “No one wanted to believe that St. John put those marks one you. Or the others I’m told they found on you. So….” He spread his hands. “That left me.”

No longer able to meet Harvey’s gaze and feeling is if he might spontaneously combust from an overload of embarrassment, Mike turned his head to stare out the window. “I’m sorry. Shit, Harvey, I’m sorry about everything. You won’t have to worry, though. I’ll swear to Jessica you didn’t know about Harvard. And –” Suddenly, he remembered something else. “Oh, god, I have to use your phone. My Grammy….”

“Is fine.”

“She is? Wait. You knew?”

Harvey shrugged one shoulder, mouth twitching in chagrined annoyance. Mike though he looked beautiful. “I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me, Rookie. I figured it out, though, once I calmed down long enough to think it through. You don’t need to worry about her. I’ve already contacted the nursing home and guaranteed any future payments which might be...misapplied. I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, but whatever the case, she’s staying put.”

Mike swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Harvey waved a hand dismissively. “Like I said, I’m only protecting my investment. Besides, it’s all a moot point now.”

It took a moment for that to register, and then Mike looked up at Harvey, brows furrowed. “It is? What do you mean? And how did you get anyone to believe you about St. John?”

Harvey sighed. “Corroborating evidence was uncovered. Or rather, dug up.”

Mike stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

A corner of Harvey’s mouth quirked up. “And one of the henchmen squealed.”

An unwilling guffaw spluttered out of Mike, but he sobered almost immediately. “Why? Did one of them suddenly grow a set? Or did one of St… _his_ checks bounce?”

“Neither.”

Mike watched, confused, as Harvey picked up the television remote control from the table next to the bed and turned up the volume.

“Harvey?”

“Just watch and listen.” He nodded at the television.

***

Harvey studied the play of emotions over Mike’s features as the younger man listened to the news about St. John which was still being rehashed and analyzed on CNN and every other cable news network. The morning’s shock and universally professed grief about his sudden death had been replaced with shock and morbid curiosity over the gruesome discoveries on his estate. Three bodies had been recovered from the grounds thus far, while forensic evidence inside the mansion indicated recent, bloody violence. And Harvey hadn’t been lying about the “henchman.” One of St. John’s employees had been all too eager to tell everything he knew about St. John’s secrets, in the hopes of beating everyone else to the punch and obtaining a favorable deal.

His thoughts were interrupted by Mike’s quavering voice. “Did they find his body? St. John’s. Did they find him?”

“Not yet. They will, though. I have no doubt of that.” In truth, he had plenty of doubts, but Mike didn’t need to hear that right now.

Mike’s wide blue gaze remained glued to the news. Despite the dark circles under his eyes and the lingering strain on his features, Harvey was struck by how young and vulnerable he appeared. “You really should get some rest,” he said, and raised the remote to turn off the television.

Mike’s haunted eyes turned in his direction. “Is it really over?” He chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds before another realization caused him to wince. “Will I need to talk to the police? About…you know…what happened. What he…what I….”

Mike managed to blush and look nauseous at the same time. Harvey imagined he could actually hear his pulse accelerating with burgeoning panic. When he answered his associate, he kept his voice low and calm. “Eventually. Right now they have more than enough to keep them occupied. A Detective Norquist mentioned that he’d be by in the morning to get your statement.”

Lips tightening, Mike groaned softly. “Meaning I’m stuck here until then?”

“Your dramatic collapse and copious leakage in my car notwithstanding, it seems that your injuries are not life threatening. The doctor informs me that he intends to release you to my care tomorrow morning.”

“To _your_ care?” Mike’s eyes had gone saucer-wide again.

Harvey gave a sharp laugh. “Well, yes, Mike. If you find the idea so distasteful, maybe you should change your emergency contact information.” Mike’s cheeks reddened further. “Not that I’m not flattered,” Harvey continued. “And it did help my case with that little harpy, Gwen.”

“Hey. Back it up. Gwen is a wonderful person. And she gives me drugs.”

“Be that as it may, I just wish you’d told me sooner that I might be adopting you. It would have given me the chance to puppy-proof my place.”

“You don’t have to…I mean, I never thought….” Mike paused in an apparent effort to collect himself. “It’s just that after Trevor left for Montana, there wasn’t anyone else. I’m sorry.”

Arms crossed, Harvey leaned back in his chair, but allowed a tolerant smile to curve his lips. “Don’t be. A healthy Mike Ross is a useful Mike Ross.” He suppressed a small wince at how callous that had sounded. It wouldn’t do to let the boy glimpse his recent weakness for gangly blue-eyed puppies. Still, the hurt that flashed in Mike’s eyes gave him a twinge of his own, somewhere in the region of his solar plexus. He rose from his chair, suddenly needing to put some distance between them.

Gwen, the nurse in question, chose that moment to enter the room.

“Ah,” said Harvey. “Good. Looks like your afternoon dose of painkillers has arrived.” He intercepted a narrow-eyed glare from Gwen. “That must be my cue to make myself scarce.” He started toward the door. “I’ll be back in the morning to pick you up. If you need anything before then, you have my cell number. Vanessa and I have checked into a charming and obscenely overpriced bed and breakfast a few blocks from here.”

He made a hasty retreat, but not before he heard Gwen quizzing Mike about Harvey, the nature of their relationship, and his role in the events of that morning. The last thing he heard was Mike’s weary, “he’s just my boss, nothing more.”

_And that is how it needs to stay._

He wanted to believe himself, but he suspected his story would never stand up under even a mediocre cross-examination.


	11. Chapter 11

_Mike teetered, snared thigh deep in a sea of mud. He needed to run, escape, but his legs moved only millimeters at a time. The more he struggled the faster he sank. Mud, thick and slimy, reached his waist, his chest, nudged his chin. He opened his mouth to shout for help but succeeded only in inhaling mud and starting to choke. Desperate to break free, he kicked out, seeking traction. One foot made contact with something more substantial than mud. He tested its outlines with his bare foot and felt it yield in a disturbing manner. Grimacing, he drew his foot away, not wanting to know what lay beneath him._

_Fighting the clinging muck, he turned in a circle, searching for a way out. Through slanting sheets of rain he saw a familiar figure approaching. "Harvey..." he croaked, lightheaded with relief. Harvey moved so slowly, almost as though out for a casual stroll in the storm, his perfect suit repelling the rain and appearing untouched. Couldn't he see Mike was in trouble? He felt himself slip a little lower and thrashed his arms, trying to find purchase._

_Harvey turned, seeming to finally see him. Heartened, Mike raised a hand to signal him, but suddenly something grabbed his ankle and held on. He imagined he heard the click of bone beneath the mud, paired with the soft shift of rotting flesh. Cold seeped inside him, deep and implacable. His face slid beneath the surface, into thick, choking darkness. Mud clogged his eyes, blinding him, filling his nose and ears. Panicked, he opened his mouth to yell for help, and waves of filth rolled inside of him, filling him up inside and out._

He woke, still yelling, and clamped his mouth shut with an effort, cutting of the noise. Waiting alone in the strange room, he listened to the echoes fade, feeling his speeding pulse stutter and then gradually slow to heavy, jarring thuds.

"Fuck," he whispered, waiting for the paralyzing terror of his nightmare to fade. A glance toward the window showed him that it was still dark out. He searched for and located stars through thinning clouds, and a brighter glow which could have been the rising moon. He shivered, more from the remembered feel of grasping, clammy flesh than the actual temperature in the hospital room. His side throbbed a little, but not too badly so he didn't bother ringing for a nurse. In any case, the last thing he wanted was to fall back asleep and back into the horror of the dream.

He stared up at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything, but he had been blessed (cursed?) with an active, curious mind. With little else to distract him, his memories had free reign to torture him. First he replayed every shameful, appalling encounter with St. John. Once started, his mind refused to turn off until he had run through everything up until his escape. He examined it all, searching for some moment when he could have changed the course of events, when he might have avoided become St. John's victim.

Louis, he thought. He should have told Louis no. _Hell, no. Fuck, no._

Once again, he wondered just how much Louis had known or suspected about what St. John had in mind that first day. Louis had sacrificed Mike once before to reel in a new client. Would he have stooped so low as to knowingly fling Mike, or anyone else, into a situation like that?

Uneasily, he remembered the all too convenient phone call Louis had received just before they got on St. John's helicopter, and the way he had instructed Mike to "be accommodating." He was all but certain that Louis had intentionally whored him out to St. John, but refused to believe that he had known the lengths to which St. John would take things, the blackmail, the threats, and the pre-meditated and deliberate humiliations. As he mulled this over, he decided to reserve judgment on whether Louis deserved a retaliatory punch in the face or something more extreme.

Mike amused himself for a few minutes trying to think of possible scenarios with which to inflict his revenge on Louis. Eventually, his thoughts turned back on himself as he remembered his wide-eyed excitement over the limousine, the helicopter ride, St. John's mansion, and the man himself. His guts began to churn unpleasantly as he acknowledged, not for the first time, that Louis would not have been too far out of line if St. John had turned out to be less of a raging psychopath. Mike might even have made the effort to seduce the man himself, like any other pathetic little star fucker. And then all of the "humiliations" would have been transformed into hot foreplay and erotic games.

_But he took away my choice_ , Mike reminded himself. He had threatened him and those he loved. And Mike - god _damn_ it all - Mike had let him get away with it. Chewing on his thumbnail, gaze unfocused, he tried to rationalize it away. "I'm not some fucking weakling," he muttered, even though part of him had begun to believe that was exactly what he had become. "It was only sex. I've done worse for a lot less."

His mind and his memories just would not shut off, though. He replayed waking up in St. John's bed after being drugged, and everything that followed as he became a plaything for a man he had begun to fear and hate in equal measure. The memories _would not fucking stop_ and he soon began to hyperventilate and grow ill with them. "He's dead," he whispered to the darkened hospital room. "It doesn't matter. He's dead and it's over now."

The whisper became a whimper, and regardless of how many times he repeated the mantra, his nausea grew, and the room seemed to waver and whirl around him, even though he was lying down. Finally, he lurched out of bed and staggered to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and just barely reaching the toilet in time to heave his guts out over and over until it seemed that absolutely nothing remained inside of him.

Except, of course, for the filth.

***

"Mr. Ross, we need to get one thing straight right now."

Mike stared stonily at Detective Norquist, lips pressed together while doing his best to ignore the steadily increasing throb of pain in his side. The cop seemed to be waiting for a response, and when Mike's silence continued, Norquist shifted in his chair and sighed loudly.

"What," Mike finally bit out, "do we need to get straight?"

Norquist placed one hand on Mike's bed and leaned in, body too close, expression too intense. Mike glanced at the closed door and felt his heart rate accelerate. It was nearly nine o'clock. Where the hell was Harvey?

"You know what I hate even more than liars?" Norquist's voice was pitched low and too smooth. "You want to take a guess, Mike?"

"I don't. No." He tried to move away, gain some space, but he had nowhere to go.

"Lawyers."

"Ah."

Norquist scooted his chair closer to the bed and bent until his face was inches from Mike's.

"Why did St. John shoot you?"

"I don't know that it was -- "

"Semantics, Mike. Shot you...had you shot. Why'd he do it? Lover's quarrel?"

Mike looked with longing toward the call button which was positioned too far away for him to reach. "Look, I'm a victim in all this."

"Maybe." Norquist furrowed his thick eyebrows as if considering Mike's words and then he leaned away, to Mike's great relief. "Question is, a victim of what, precisely? Attempted murder? Assault? Or maybe some kinky shenanigans that went too far? We are not completely unsophisticated out here, you know. We see this sort of thing from time to time. I'm not opposed to queers, and I don't give a shit if you like being tied up and getting spanked, or whatever. My second wife had a real thing for handcuffs. I'd pretend to arrest her and frisk her and...." He trailed off, gaze unfocused for a moment. "Well, never mind that. My point is, I'm not judging you Mike.

"

"Er...likewise?"

"But if you just look at it from my point of view, I think you'll agree that this story you've been feeding me is as full of holes as a golf course made of Swiss cheese. You tell me that you were visiting your client, that you decided to take a stroll around the grounds in a raging storm, and when the ground gave way, revealing a dead man, you instantly assumed Mr. St. John had murdered him, and instead of leaving or calling the police, you accused St. John and he chased you and he - or one of his employees - shot you. Do I have that right?"

"That about covers it."

"Were you having sex with St. John?"

Mike clamped his lips together and said nothing.

"You seduced him didn't you?" He waited, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "Not gonna talk anymore? I don't blame you. But here's how I see it, Mike. You get your chance with St. John, to meet with him alone, one on one. You know he's rich, richer than God, almost. But you also know his reputation as a ladies' man. Did you get him drunk? Maybe slipped him a roofie? Or maybe you tapped into some inclinations he already had, convinced him to take a little stroll on your side of the street. Is that what happened?"

"No."

"And then, once you hooked him, you reeled him in further, tapped into his darker instincts."

"Shut up," Mike gritted.

"Mmmm. I'll bet he couldn't get enough of that sweet young ass of yours. You probably played him like a real pro." He chuckled, a harsh, dirty sound. "Boy, I'll bet he just pounded you right through the mattress, didn't he? You let him think he was in control, while you orchestrated the whole thing."

Mike struggled to draw a breath, shocked and sickened by the detective's words. Part of him knew that he was being manipulated, that Norquist wanted to get him angry enough to blurt out the truth. And he was angry, but the words -- the truth -- stayed trapped inside of him, as surely as if St. John was still alive, still pulling his strings.

"Was it about blackmail?" asked Norquist.

Mike's eyes widened involuntarily.

Norquist nodded slowly, as if he had figured it all out. "St. John may be gone, son, and the forensics may or may not prove that he was a killer, but that doesn't excuse your crimes."

Mike blinked. "My what now?"

"How much did you take him for?"

" _Me_?" The word squeaked out of him, followed by weak laughter which rapidly grew until it approached hysteria. It might have continued indefinitely, but a stab of pain in his side brought him up short. He pressed his hand against his dressing, as if that would hold in the pain, and breathed shallowly, suddenly exhausted.

He cracked open an eye to find Norquist on his feet, staring down at him with a confusing combination of concern and disdain.

"Ross? You need the nurse?"

"Why?" drawled a familiar and welcome voice from the doorway. "Did you send him into a relapse?"

"Harvey," Mike whispered, weak with relief.

"Specter," said Norquist, nodding less than cordially. "Mike and I were just having a little chat."

"Which is now finished."

Norquist crossed his arms and thrust his chin out. "Now look here, Specter -- "

"Which," Harvey repeated, smiling like a shark, "is now finished."

"Ross -- "

"Is being released into my care, providing you haven't set back his recovery with your interrogation."

Norquist opened his mouth to protest again, but Harvey cut him off before he could so much as utter a syllable.

"Mike is the injured party here, in more ways than one. Trying to intimidate him into revealing potentially embarrassing details regarding his dealings with St. John is not going to make the man any less dead, or disappear any of those rotting corpses on his property. All it will achieve is to satisfy your prurient interest while at the same time pissing me off. Trust me, Detective, you do not want to piss me off."

"You threatening me, Specter?"

"Hardly." The shark's smile returned. Mike watched, fascinated as Norquist tried to keep his steely stare trained on Harvey, only to grow pink and flustered and look away.

"I may have more questions for him," he finally muttered.

"Well, if you have the time or inclination for that, after processing all those dead men and digging into St. John's past, you feel free to give me a call and make an appointment." He produced a business card and handed it to Norquist. "Oh, and here's a tip for you. Take a good long look at St. John's father."

Harvey moved out of the doorway, making room for Norquist to leave. A moment later, the detective gave Harvey a stiff-jawed glare and did just that.

"You're welcome," Harvey murmured, scowling at his retreating back. Then he turned to Mike and his expression softened. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Thanks."

"You don't look so good. Maybe you should stick around here for another day or two."

"No!" Mike closed his eyes for a few seconds, forcing himself to relax, then looked up at Harvey. "I mean, I feel okay. Sore, tired, but okay. And if anyone tries to force me to stay here another day, I might just make a dash for freedom, flapping gown and all." He gave Harvey a twitchy, desperate grin.

Harvey studied him, seeming to evaluate the truth in his words. "All right," he finally conceded. "If your doctor clears you to leave, we can get out of here."

"Okay," Mike said, letting the word flow out of him like a sigh. "Good." He arranged his face into what he hoped was a more convincing smile, but Harvey had left the room already, looking for the doctor. "Good," he repeated, letting the smile drain slowly from his face. He turned to he stare out the window at the weak sunlight.

Disjointed images from his nightmare played through his mind. He fought them off, subduing them one at time, but unable to banish the lingering sensation of clinging mud, of being immersed in filth.

He bit his lower lip and bombarded his mind with words. He started with the textbooks from his short-lived college career -- Biology, Astronomy, Ancient History, American Lit -- skipping randomly from one to the next, proceeded to a series of law texts, before settling on the massive Bainbridge briefs which he had proofed for Gregory. His lips moved a little as he recited them to himself, banishing all thoughts of St. John, purging them for the moment, washing the filth from himself with a tsunami of words.


	12. Chapter 12

Jagged, ugly edges of pain and remembering, blurred and made bearable by regular doses of painkillers – this is how the rest of the day passed for Mike.  Wrapped in a soft blanket and taking up the entire plush backseat of a large car, he slept for most of the drive back to the city, and only discovered much later that Harvey had gotten Ray to drive his town car all the way out to the hospital on a Sunday, leaving Vanessa to drive Harvey’s car back.

When he finally broke through the fog, he found himself in an unfamiliar bed, limbs restrained and unable to move.  Echoes of dread began to churn in his guts.  Where was he?  Slowing his breathing, he looked for clues.  He was tucked tightly inside of a blanket which he now remembered from the car ride, and weighted by a comforter that smelled like….Mike inhaled deeply….Like Harvey.  It smelled like Harvey.

He was at Harvey’s place, he realized, and his anxiety receded.  His actual arrival remained blurry, but he did recall flaring pain and a suspicion that he may have left the hospital too soon.  At the moment, he floated above the pain, but not far enough to escape memories of St. John.

_Don’t think about that.  Never, ever think about that._

Restless, he studied the room, and spotted a full glass of water and two tablets on the nightstand next to him.  Blearily, he considered the pills.  The pain in his side was still muted, but he reached for the pills anyway.  Percocet always made him feel as if he was disappearing somewhere inside himself, ceasing to exist for a time, and that was what he craved at that moment.

He swallowed the pills, drained the glass, and realized he was still thirsty, and more importantly, needed to take a piss, so he threw off the comforter and stifled a bark of laughter at the sight of the blanket wrapped and folded around him with sharp precision.  “I look like a fucking burrito,” he muttered, and set out about untangling himself, which proved more difficult than he would have predicted.  Freed from the blanket, he inched his way to the edge of the bed and twisted around to rest his feet on the floor.  Pain reawakened and his head swam, but after a minute or two things seemed to have stabilized so he pushed himself up and stood swaying and estimating how much the hardwood floor would hurt if he landed on it face first.

Finally, he started moving toward the door, reaching for handholds as he went.  He found the bathroom, which was right next door, and took care of his most pressing need.  Back in the hallway, he hesitated, considering whether or not to return to bed.  The Percocet had yet to kick in, though, and he dreaded being alone with his thoughts before it did.  A low voice reached him and without thinking he navigated towards it.

Mike had only had one brief glimpse of Harvey’s living room before, and he had been drunk and standing outside the front door at the time.  Now, he took in the elegant, modern style in a glance.  Impressive, his brain acknowledged, but nowhere near as impressive as the sight of Harvey Specter in jeans and black, long-sleeved t-shirt, slouched on a leather sofa with his narrow, bare feet propped on a coffee table, arms crossed loosely over his chest and cell phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear.  Beyond Harvey, the floor-to-ceiling windows showed a nighttime view of the city which left Mike a little disoriented.  How long had he been out?  Was it still the same day, or had he slept through to the next day and night?  He leaned up against the wall and must have made a noise because Harvey glanced over his shoulder and spotted him there.

Without acknowledging Mike, Harvey turned back around and ended his phone conversation with, “All right, Jessica.  I understand.  I’ll call you later.”  He hung up, placed his phone on the coffee table and stood up to face Mike.  “Why aren’t you in bed?”  Sharp tone, reasonable, somewhat accusatory and pure Harvey. 

Mike’s face tightened as he was gripped with the absurd desire to burst into tears.  He chose to blame it on the drugs.  It made no sense.  Harvey was right.  Mike was in no condition to be up and walking around, but the idea of returning to the guest room to be preyed on by memories held no appeal.  In fact, it terrified him.  He felt weak, off-balance, jittery with nerves and ready to come out of his skin.  Random images of his time with St. John came at him in ugly flashes.  He wanted to wheedle more drugs out of Harvey just to make it all stop.

An impatient sounding exhale gusted out of Harvey and he moved toward Mike.

“Wait,” said Mike, holding up his hand.  “Can I – I’m okay.  I mean, I need a change of scenery for a little while.”  He gestured toward the sofa.  “Would it be all right if I hung out here for now?  Just until I get sleepy again.”

Harvey’s lips pressed together as if he disapproved, but after a moment he nodded once and pivoted to one side, allowing Mike pass, careful not to touch him.  Mike lowered himself to a half-reclining position, unable to stifle the low whimper at the pain in his side and back.

“Think you can eat something?”  Harvey lingered next to him.

Mike considered the question.  “I’m not sure.”

“Well, you’re going to eat the soup I got you.  You need to take your antibiotics with food.”

Any other time, Mike would have managed a clever retort, but he felt dull and stupid, so he just nodded once, content for the moment to let Harvey make decisions for him.

While Harvey disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes, Mike shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable.  Harvey’s living room grew hazy around him, and at last he began to feel removed from his pain once more.  “Yessss,” he murmured, relieved and tempted to curl up and drift away, but he needed to stay alert a little bit longer for Harvey.  Harvey, who was fetching him soup.  His eyelids grew heavy and he smiled at the image.  He lost time and jerked awake when his shoulder was prodded.

“Hey,” said Harvey.  He held a large bowl.  Curls of steam rose between the two of them.

“Hey, you.”  Mike grinned up at him.  “Is that for me?”

“Well, duh.  Come on.  You’re going to need to sit up for this.”

Obediently, Mike pushed himself up and accepted the spoon Harvey handed him.  The soup turned out to be wonton, just the way Mike liked it, with plenty of perfect dumplings and green onions.  He slurped his way gracelessly through a third of the bowl before giving up, and then swallowed the pill that Harvey produced.

When Harvey returned from the kitchen after removing the leftovers, he gave Mike a pointed look.  Feeling no pain and unwilling to return to the bedroom, Mike turned onto his side and tried to burrow into the expensive leather.  He yawned and tried to cover it by asking the first thing that came into his mind.  “What were you talking about with Jessica?”

Harvey blinked.  Slowly, he sat in the chair next to the sofa.  “You, actually.”

Despite the overcooked pasta his limbs had become, Mike grew tense once more and the phenomenal soup suddenly felt like acid in his stomach.  “You didn’t tell her….”  He wasn’t sure if he meant it as a statement or a question.

His voice unexpectedly gentle, Harvey said, “Of course not.  I wouldn’t do that.”

“Okay,” said Mike.  “Okay.  I know.  I knew that.”

“Only you and I know the truth now.  St. John’s flunkies have agreed to leave you out of it, except to repeat that you were flown out there for business, and discovered the body on a stroll around the grounds.”

Mike gave a skeptical laugh.  “In a rainstorm?  The cops bought that?”

Calm and sure, Harvey gazed back at him.  “They bought that you’re a quirky guy.”

“Just some nutty lawyer from New York City?”

“Quirky.  And young.”

Mike couldn’t be sure, but _young and dumb_ seemed implied.  He could hardly argue with that assessment, and tried to sink lower into the sofa, embarrassed and sad and unutterably tired.

Harvey stood and moved to stand in front of the window, his back to Mike.  “I wish you’d come to me, Mike.  I wish you had trusted me enough to do that.”

Mike gave a frustrated little huff.

Turning around to face him again, Harvey narrowed his eyes.  “You wanted to handle it yourself.  I get it, and most times I’m all for that.  But you need to learn when something is too big for you alone.” 

Mike mulled that over, tried to imagine himself confessing what St. John had required him to do, to admit any of that to Harvey, even now, and agitation began to bleed through to the nice little high he had going.  A fresh burst of shame surged through his veins, and when he spoke it came out as sharp anger.  “I couldn’t.  I told you why.  You don’t know what it was like, what he was like.  He had me over a barrel.”  _And a desk and a car seat and his lap…_.  The images assaulted him and he started to hyperventilate.  He pushed to his feet, managing to remain steady, and waved Harvey off when he moved toward him.

“I have to get out of here,” Mike said.  “I can’t stay here.  I need to go home.”  Go home and hide and shut out the world for a while.  He couldn’t stand having Harvey look at him like he was now, with concern and pity.

Harvey took a step toward him reaching out, but lowered his arm when Mike glared at him.  “You’re still healing,” Harvey said, reasonable and infuriating.  “You need someone – ”

“No,” Mike snapped, knowing Harvey didn’t deserve his anger, but helpless to control it.  “I don’t.  I’m fine.  See?”  He held his arms out to his sides, demonstrating that he was capable of remaining on his feet without assistance.  “I want to go home.  Just give me my pills and….”  He realized he didn’t have money for a cab, but he’d be damned if he would let a little thing like that deter him.  Sighing, he steeled himself before continuing.  “Can I borrow cab fare, please?”

Harvey stared back at him.  “No,” he said, simple, straightforward, with no room to argue.

“Harvey – ”

“You were shot Mike.”

“Barely.”

“Bullshit.  Look at you.  You’re about five seconds away from toppling over.  Let me help you back to bed.”

Harvey made a grab for Mike’s arm and he skittered backwards, bumped into the couch, tried to catch himself and overcompensated.  He swayed, searching for balance, but the drugs chose that moment to slam into his system.

“Man down,” he whispered, shutting his eyes against the grey nothing that descended.

“Jesus, Mike.”

Hands gripped him hard as he started to slide.

“’M going down.”  He might have been smiling, but he could no longer feel his face.

“Told you so.  Idiot.”  Voice amused and affectionate.

 

***

 

Harvey stood in the doorway for a few minutes and watched Mike sleep.  Every so often the younger man twitched and grimaced, but mostly he lay lax and immobile. 

He was not at all sure he had done the right thing, forcing Mike to stay.  The utter panic he had glimpsed in Mike’s eyes had thrown him.  That panic was so out of place in eyes usually bright with humor, enthusiasm and a passion to please.  At that moment, part of Harvey regretted St. John’s death.  He wanted to watch him suffer the way he had made Mike suffer.

Recalling the client dinner with St. John, when Harvey had let Mike walk away from him, he couldn’t regret keeping him close this time.  Still, he was left with the unsettling sensation of having failed Mike yet again.

Shaking off his grim thoughts, he headed back to the living room.  Mike would be fine, he told himself.  Harvey wasn’t his goddamn mother, after all.  He’d gone far above and beyond his responsibilities toward the boy this weekend.  If Mike seemed better tomorrow and still didn’t want to stay with him, he’d respect his wishes and send him home.

He poured himself a drink and sank onto the sofa, staring out at the midnight sky, taking one deep breath after another, and refusing to admit that he was chasing Mike’s scent, searching for some lingering proof that he was still there.

Not that it mattered now.  He might keep him close for a while, but Mike was farther away than ever.


	13. Chapter 13

The following morning, Harvey fixed himself a second espresso at 9:30 and carried it to the window.  Although he'd lived here for three years, he hadn’t yet tired of a view which rarely failed to soothe his jangled nerves, bring order to his restless mind, and help him to unwind after a day of overwrought negotiations and court appearances.  Not that he normally allowed much to unbalance him.  The last week had been an exception.  As he surveyed the Manhattan skyline, bright sunlight soaked into him, warming him and chasing out some of the chill that had plagued him lately. The weekend storm had blown itself out, leaving behind a city that felt fresh, full of possibilities, and untainted by recent events.

Turning away from the window, he stared thoughtfully in the direction of his guest bedroom.  Last night, after he had gotten Mike settled back in bed, he’d watched over him for a while, stationing himself in the comfortable chair in the corner until satisfied that the younger man slept deeply and untroubled by nightmares.  He had pictured (fantasized) Mike in his home often enough, but could never have predicted these circumstances.  Still, as he sat there and studied the young, vulnerable features, it required a great amount of restraint not to reach out and touch a cheek, trace his finger along the collarbone, or smooth the brow that angled downwards every so often as if some distressing memory had whispered briefly through his dreams.

Before he left to find his own sleep, Harvey couldn’t resist perching on the edge of the bed and just watching Mike breath in and out.  His own chest constricted at the thought of how close he had come to losing Mike, and his hand crept forward as if of its own accord to touch the side of Mike’s head.  When Mike moved restlessly, Harvey froze and almost snatched his hand back, but the sleeping man only shifted and burrowed more deeply into the pillow, growing more relaxed under Harvey’s hand.  So he indulged himself for another minute or two, petting Mike’s surprisingly soft hair and wishing he had made a move on the man before St. John had arrived in Mike’s life.

Would Mike even be open now to any overtures Harvey might make?  Or had his trust been destroyed by St. John?  Harvey couldn’t help but wonder exactly what had gone on between them.  Mike’s injuries had told some of the story, but Harvey would never ask for details.  If Mike decided to tell him, that was one thing, but he couldn’t bring himself to pry.

Scowling, he withdrew his hand and stood.  When had he ever been reluctant to broach a sensitive subject with anyone?  Was he getting soft?  His scowl deepened.  He couldn’t afford to go soft, not in his profession.  Best to get some sleep and shore up his defenses.  He left Mike’s room to find his own bed. 

He left the door open, though, just in case.

 

Now, he took a sip of espresso, savoring the flavor and the jolt of energy the caffeine shot through his system.  He heard a noise in the hallway, and looked over in surprise to see Mike shuffling into the living room, the blanket wrapped around him.  Harvey hid a smile.  With his ruffled hair and sleepy, blinking eyes, the kid looked like…a kid.  e HhHBeyond that, he seemed improved, less shaky and wired and on the edge of collapse.

“Izzat coffee?” Mike mumbled before settling on the sofa with only a small wince.

“Do you need a painkiller?”

Harvey watched Mike consider the question.  “Maybe just half.  And a couple Tylenol.”

“All right.  Wait here.”  Harvey found the requested medication and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

When he had taken the pills, Mike gave Harvey a pleading look, softened by a tiny quirk of a smile.  “Could I talk you out of some coffee too?”

“I think I can manage that.  As long as you eat some breakfast along with it.”  He watched Mike pull the blanket more closely around his shoulders and stare at the floor, frowning.  “Don’t bother arguing with me.  What will it be?  Eggs?  Cereal?  Waffles?”

Mike’s eyes met his and shifted away again.  “Waffles are fine.”

“Waffles it is.  You stay here and I’ll go work my magic.”  He’d taken three steps toward the kitchen before Mike’s tentative voice halted him.

“Harvey…isn’t today Monday?”

Harvey nodded, suppressing the sardonic response which sprang automatically to his tongue.

“Are we going in late today?”

He couldn’t help it.  He gave an amused snort.  “We aren’t going in at all today.  And you are out for the rest of the week.  So lose the constipated look and take try to relax.  You are a lucky boy.  I’m going to take care of you.”  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could retract them, edit them with a liberal dose of snark, and try again.

_I’m going to take care of you._

He’d said the same words often enough in an entirely different context, and felt himself heating all the way through at the thought of taking care of Mike in that way.  Striving to maintain an air of dignified detachment, he turned and continued into the kitchen, counting on the fact that Mike was still too groggy to notice his discomfort.

He set to work mixing batter, heating the waffle iron, and preparing Mike a caffe latte, heavy on the latte.  As he steamed the milk, the microwave beeped, signaling that the maple syrup was heated.  Keeping the metal pitcher of milk underneath the nozzle, he spun to check the progress of the waffles, grabbed a plate from the shelf above the counter, slid it toward the waffle iron, shut off the espresso machine and poured the shot and milk into a large mug.  As he spun back towards the waffle iron, a movement in the living room caught his eye and he realized Mike had moved from the sofa to a chair which looked directly into the kitchen, sitting hunched inside his blanket and watching Harvey’s well-practiced breakfast choreography with an expression which could only be described as… _rapt_.

_Huh._

Unable to help himself, Harvey grinned at Mike and noted with pleasure that the smile was returned, if a little uncertainly, accompanied by an unmistakable pinkness in the younger man’s cheeks.

Surprising.  Surprising and promising.

 

***

 

After breakfast, Mike installed himself on Harvey’s sofa, refusing to budge when Harvey suggested that he return to the guest room.  Exhaustion dragged at Mike, but he’d had enough of sleeping, enough of nightmares and hiding.  When he woke up this morning, he’d decided he would face the pain head-on – all facets of it.  He may have been one of St. John’s victims, but unlike too many of them, he was alive and unscathed.  Well, maybe a little scathed.  More than a little.  But compared to what might have been, he had not come out of the experience too badly.

He’d survived, at any rate.

Harvey had set up at a small desk in the corner of the room with his laptop and case files.  Mike was under strict orders to sleep, but he just couldn’t help snatching glances at his boss.  He already knew how hot Harvey looked in a suit.  Now he had an extended and unimpeded view of Harvey in faded jeans, plain black t-shirt and bare feet.  Who knew Harvey Specter had such nice feet?

He wondered absently how Harvey would react if he crept up behind him and knelt down to run his tongue over a rounded ankle bone before moving around to suck on those narrow, elegant toes.  Just then, Harvey cut a quick glare in his direction before returning to his reading.

“Either stop thinking so goddamn loud or go back to bed,” Harvey said.  His feet shifted position and he wriggled his toes, almost as if he knew what Mike had been thinking.

Mike pressed his lips together, pulled the blanket closer and squirmed uncomfortably, partly surprised but mostly relieved that he could become aroused with the memory of St John still so vivid and raw.  He may not be capable of erasing the memory, he decided, but perhaps he could create a newer, more pleasurable one.

Harvey sighed and shifted again, and Mike worried that he had begun emitting pheromones or “fuck me” vibes.  In his current frame of mind, he could have watched Harvey work for hours, but more inappropriate thoughts were sure to follow.  He stood abruptly, pleased that he didn’t wobble (much).

“Finally,” Harvey muttered, and then a little louder, with a dash more warmth in his voice, “Need any help?”

_Yes, absolutely.  Help me wash away the memory of St. John with a shrieking orgasm or twenty._

“Nah.  I’m good.  Just gonna grab a shower.”

“Good.  Don’t forget to cover your wound.”

“Right.  Thanks.”

Mike shuffled into the kitchen and rooted around in the cabinets until he found some plastic wrap.  As he passed Harvey again on his way to the bathroom, he paused.  This morning he’d noticed the sweatpants and t-shirt he wore weren’t his own (and how intriguing to visualize how that might have come to pass).

“Um,” he began.  “I don’t suppose…I mean…do you have some other clothes I could wear?”

Harvey grunted and pointed toward the front door where a small, familiar looking bag sat.

“Hey.”  Mike approached the bag as cautiously as if it were a drunken sorority girl preparing to spew.  “How did my suitcase get here?”

“I sent Ray to your place for a few necessities.  Evidently he deserves a sizeable bonus for braving your building.  And before you ask, Vanessa brought back your keys from St. John’s place, along with your wallet and phone.”

“Vanessa?  Was that the hot girl with the enormous gun?”

“Yes.  And you owe her an obscenely expense bottle of Cognac for absconding with evidence from the crime scene.  We’re not supposed to know about that, or ask her how she pulled it off.  Just know that virtually all trace of you was removed from inside the house.”

“Huh.  Wow.”

“’Wow’ describes her pretty well.  Officially, I disapprove of her actions, but in the end it won’t change anything.  St. John’s dead.  No one needs to know the details of your involvement with him and they never will.  Not, that is, unless you were stupidly careless with your DNA.”  Harvey’s lips compressed suddenly and he broke eye contact, appearing angry.  “Sorry.”  He drummed his long fingers distractedly on the surface of his desk.

Mike swallowed, and then cleared his throat, and the sound seemed to echo like a gunshot in the awkward silence.  “So.  Okay…shower,” he muttered, and escaped to the bathroom.

He taped plastic over his wound and turned on the water, but before he stepped underneath the spray, he debated for long minutes whether to set the temperature to scalding hot or ice cold.

 

***

 

Harvey chopped vegetables for a salad, his knife a blur, rapping out a staccato beat on the cutting board.  Mike had offered to help prepare dinner, but he’d been shooed back to the living room.  He only retreated as far as the chair that allowed him to watch the other man work.  Harvey’s culinary skills were a revelation.  If he had ever bothered to consider the issue, Mike probably would have assumed that his boss lived on expensive takeout food.  Instead, Harvey seemed to truly enjoy cooking, and the meals he had served Mike in the past two days had been beyond delicious.

It was now Tuesday.  Harvey had gone to work that morning, but had returned by 6:30, surprising Mike awake where he had fallen into a profoundly deep sleep on the sofa.  An automatic, sleepy request to be allowed to go home had been met with a dark gaze and grudging, “We’ll see.  Dinner first, though.”

So he sat and observed and wished he had kept his mouth shut.  All previous requests had been denied outright, and if he’d known Harvey’s stance had changed since this morning, he might not have spoken up.  No valid reason remained for Mike to stay.  He was tired, but not incapacitated.  His side ached, but Tylenol and the occasional half a Percocet kept the pain at tolerable levels.  He suspected he’d outstayed his welcome, and nothing prevented him from leaving.

Nothing except a burning curiosity to discover if Harvey tasted as mouth-wateringly complex as the food he prepared.

Just thinking about it, Mike groaned.  Immediately, Harvey whirled toward him, wielding a wickedly serrated fig-sticky blade.

“What’s wrong?” he snapped at Mike.

“Ah.”  Mike licked his lips and exhaled.  “Nothing.”

“Nothing?  What was that, then?”

“That what?”

He could almost hear Harvey’s molars grinding together.

“That sound you just made.  Are you in pain?”

_You have no idea._

“Just thinking about all the work that must be piling up on my desk,” he lied.

Harvey frowned and sketched a circular motion with the knife, somehow conveying to Mike that he shouldn’t worry.  “It’s being handled.”  And he returned to his chopping.

Mike continued to watch him, frozen between want and fear.  While Harvey dissected a yellow pepper, Mike ran through a quick risk assessment.  What consequences might he suffer for pressing himself to Harvey’s back and lapping at that vulnerable spot below his ear?  What rewards could accrue?

He might have debated all night and never made a move, but then Harvey laid down the knife and turned toward him, wiping his hands on a dish towel.  Later, Mike would wonder if he had misinterpreted the look in Harvey’s eyes, had only wanted the dark intensity to translate into arousal.  At that moment he saw what he wanted to see, and he rose to his feet, padding into the kitchen on bare feet.  Four steps and his chest grazed Harvey’s.  When he reached out and touched the tip of one finger to the hollow of Harvey’s throat, the dark gaze never wavered.  Mike took that as a favorable sign.

Harvey’s lips were right there in front of him, so Mike tilted forward and brushed them with his own and then moved back a few inches and licked his lower lip, testing Harvey’s flavor.  With only a sharply exhaled breath for a warning, Harvey’s mouth slammed over his and would have sent him staggering backwards if not for the hard arm that gathered him in.  As it was, his world spun sideways and his back hit the wall with a soft thud.

“God,” Harvey muttered, the barest sliver of space separating his mouth from Mike’s.  His forearms smacked the wall to either side of Mike’s head and he dove in for more, growling low in his throat as he drew Mike’s tongue into his mouth and possessed it with warm suction until Mike grew dizzy with it.

Much later, Mike realized he could breathe again.  Harvey’s overheated forehead rested against his and they both panted.

“God,” Harvey whispered again, and Mike could feel the word like a shiver in his guts.

And then the thrice-damned oven timer beeped.  Sanity blinked back into Harvey’s eyes.  He lifted his arms and stepped away.  Mike wanted to follow him, to stalk him across the room and press himself to him once more, but something in Harvey’s expression warned him off.

So Mike backed up until he stood outside the border of the kitchen while Harvey grabbed an oven mitt, pulled the pan of salmon filets from under the broiler and brushed on more of the glaze he’d prepared earlier.  It smelled wonderful, but Mike’s appetite had deserted him.  He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other while Harvey plated the salmon and salad and tiny rosemary muffins.  When one of the plates was shoved in his direction, Mike grabbed it automatically, but didn’t move otherwise.

Feeling the need to speak, he cleared his throat.  “That was… about that.  It’s….”  He paused, regrouping.  “Should I be apologizing?” he finally said.

Harvey gave him a startled look and laughed sharply.  “No.  You should be sitting your butt in a chair and eating dinner.  After that we’ll talk.”

Mike licked his lower lip nervously, and watched Harvey’s gaze move immediately to his mouth.  “About whether I get to go home or not?”

The slow smile which curved Harvey’s mouth and lit his eyes could only be described as incendiary.  “Oh, hell no.”  He seemed to check himself, shutting his eyes for a millisecond.  “Or rather, stay.  Please.”

That low, murmured “please” sent a stab of surprise and heat through Mike.  His plate of food tilted and he only just managed to level it before losing half his salad.  “Okay,” he said.  “I’ll stay.”


	14. Chapter 14

Dinner was eaten and the dishes washed.  Harvey sank onto the couch, leaving a wide space between himself and Mike.  He rested his elbows on his knees, focusing on the floor between his feet, and then turned his head to study Mike.  Whether unconsciously or not, the younger man’s posture mirrored his, except that the leg nearest to Harvey jittered up and down in an obvious show of nerves.  Harvey returned to his study of the floor, searching for the best way to begin the conversation.

Evidently, he waited too long to suit Mike.

“Well?” asked Mike, his voice a croaky rasp.

Harvey leaned back and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle.  Logic told him that getting involved with Mike Ross outside of work was a bad idea.

Appallingly bad. 

For one thing, Mike worked for him.  He was young, too much ruled by his emotions, and so unsophisticated.  He would probably end up imprinting on Harvey, like a fluffy little duckling, and then he wouldn’t be able to shake him loose.  Most problematic of all, Harvey suspected that Mike’s experience with St. John had damaged more than just his body.  The kiss in the kitchen had taken Harvey by surprise.  He hadn’t really minded, and it had curled his toes more than a little.  But Mike had to be confused right now, and despite all of Harvey’s recent protestations to the contrary, he had grown to… (here he paused in his ruminations to give an internal grimace of distaste)…to _care_ about the kid.

_Hell.  Be honest with yourself.  You actually like the little turd._

He shifted so that he partially faced Mike, who eyed him anxiously before turning his gaze to the window and running his tongue over his lower lip.  That reminded Harvey of the kiss, and the flare of arousal it had lit inside of him.  The kid could definitely kiss.

“Look at me,” Harvey said.

Wide blue eyes met his.  Damn, sometimes the kid looked so pretty and appealingly innocent.  No, not innocent, precisely.  Vulnerable.  Moldable.  And utterly fuckable.  When Mike looked at him like that, Harvey wanted to despoil him.  Ruin and plunder and _own_ him.

Realizing his respirations had increased and grown ragged, Harvey caught his breath.  _Take it down a notch._   The last thing Mike needed right now was another St. John.

_So, nix on the owning._

He’d have to take it gentle and easy, at least to begin with.  After that, all bets were off.

Harvey slid across the couch until his leg pressed lightly against Mike’s.  He ran his index finger across Mike’s cheekbone before using it to caress his moist lower lip.  “If we do this,” he murmured, “there will be ground rules…understandings.”

Mike’s eyes grew suddenly guarded and he moved back fractionally.  “Such as?”

Harvey grabbed his chin, careful not to grip too hard.  “Such as, we take it slow.  We keep it out of the office.  We call it off at any time – either one of us – no recriminations, no regrets, no pissiness, no sulking.  I’m not going to belabor your recent misadventures, but if anything I do makes you uncomfortable, you’re going to let me know.  Agreed?”

Mike nodded.

Harvey scowled.  “Please verbalize.”

For some reason that coaxed a smile out of Mike.  “Affirmative,” he replied in ridiculous robot voice.  At Harvey’s raised eyebrow, the twinkle returned to Mike’s eyes.  “Aye, aye?”

Leaning over him, Harvey slipped his hand past the neckline of Mike’s t-shirt, brushing his knuckles over his sternum.  “Addendum to the ground rules:  do not mock your boss.”  He bent closer and dragged his tongue up Mike’s neck and behind his ear.  The other man’s full body shiver inspired him to graze his teeth lightly over the sensitive area and then suck hungrily.

Mike made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a groan, and held onto Harvey’s head, pressing him closer.  “N-not mocking.  Ahh.  Th-that’s….right there.  Oh shit.  Oh _fuck_ , Harvey.”

Mike fell back, seeming to melt into the couch, and Harvey followed, licking and sucking and savoring the taste of Mike’s skin, until he sprawled halfway top of him, one knee between Mike’s spread legs and his forearms on either side of Mike’s head.  Licking a final, lingering stripe underneath Mike’s chin, he zeroed in on his mouth, keeping the contact soft at first, barely-there brushes of his lips.  Mike opened his eyes, heavy-lidded and dazed and – And Harvey found he had to shut his own eyes against that look which was too trusting, too adoring….just too much.

He concentrated on the feel of Mike’s lips under his own, the jolt of triumph when they yielded to him, opening and breathing a sigh into his mouth.  He slid his tongue inside and tasted, grunting a little in surprise at how good Mike felt, how his own desire rose up so sharp and quick.  He pulled his head back and opened his eyes, chest heaving.  Mike’s gaze had gone unfocused and smoky blue-grey.  No hesitation showed in Mike’s eyes – _yes, thank you baby Jesus_ – so Harvey shifted again, allowing his weight to rest more fully on Mike, but as he dipped his head again for another taste, his elbow jostled Mike’s side, causing the other man to wince and give a low pained groan which he tried to stifle.

Immediately, Harvey was off of the couch, crouching beside him, hands fluttering (seriously…fluttering?) anxiously over his torso.  “Shit, Mike.  I forgot.  You okay?  You’re not bleeding, are you?”  His hands continued to hover.  He wanted to peel off Mike’s t-shirt and check to see that he hadn’t aggravated his injury, but hesitated to intrude on his personal space while simultaneously acknowledging how absurd that was, considering that mere seconds ago he’d been licking the taste of dinner off of Mike’s tonsils.

“Yes.  No.  I’m fine.”  Mike grabbed Harvey’s hands to hold them still.  “I’m fine.  Or at least I was until you stopped doing what you were doing.”

“Bullshit.  I heard that…that… _sound_ you made.  That wasn’t a happy sound.”

“I was pretty happy up until you goosed me.”

“I did not goose you.”  Harvey frowned.  “This was a bad idea.”

Mike appeared even more pained than before, although he tried to cover it with a half-hearted attempt at a cheeky grin.  “Good idea.  Poor execution.”  Deflating a little, he sighed.  “Look Harvey, I’m not going to pretend that I’m not affected by what happened, or that getting shot doesn’t hurt like fuck.  We can work around the injury.  As for the rest, I’m holding it together just fine.  In fact, I’ve begun an extended period of strenuous denial.”

“Mike…”

“Hey, it’s a time-honored strategy.  I can’t exactly forget what happened.”  Grimacing, he tapped one finger to his temple to indicate his freaky memory.

Harvey watched Mike’s face, attempting to interpret the twitches of emotion, one giving way to the next almost too quickly to catch.  Overriding everything, though, the blue eyes beseeched him to…what, exactly?  Fuck the feel of St. John out of him?  An unfamiliar sensation filled Harvey as for one of the few times in his life he felt completely out of his depth.  Still crouching, he rested his hands on Mike’s thighs and fixed him with a serious stare, waiting him out when his gaze dropped to Harvey’s hands.  Finally, Mike managed to make eye contact and although one side of his mouth quirked up, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple betrayed his unease.

“I’m no therapist,” Harvey said, letting his thumbs rub light circles over Mike’s inner thighs.  “And at the risk of sounding uncharacteristically modest, I don’t possess a magic, healing dick.”

“That’s not what Louis told me.”  Totally deadpan.

Harvey blinked, snorted a laugh.  “First of all, eww.  More importantly, nice comeback.  Okay.  Sense of humor intact.  Noted.”  One hand slid up to cup Mike’s crotch and he smiled lewdly at what he encountered.  “Physiological response…promising.  I suppose all that remains is for you to give me some idea how much you’re up for with that hole in your side.”

Voice breathless and strained, Mike said, “Well, if it’s not too inconvenient…since you’re already down there….”

“Hmm.  Tempting.  But I have a better idea.”

“I’m not sure there _is_ a better idea.”

“Shut up.  Rain check, all right?”

Mike’s mouth twisted into a disappointed smile.  “I should probably get that in writing, huh?”

“Mike.”  Striving for patience.  “If you want to continue, just nod.”

Eyes wide, Mike made like a bobblehead with a nervous condition. 

Harvey waited, giving Mike a chance to change his mind.  When it looked as if he wouldn’t, he smiled, repeated, “Okay,” heaved to his feet and held out his hand.  “Then come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little on the short side, but I hate how long it's taking me to update. Perhaps shorter chapters will mean quicker updates. It's a theory, anyway. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented and/or kudo'd, and apologies to those commenters who did not get a reply. Yes, I know I'm not contractually obligated to reply to all comments, but I do try. I really do appreciate each and every comment I receive.
> 
> I would like to thank my beta, except that I'm a big ole beta-less loser. Instead I'll apologize for any mistakes as well as the current meandering nature of the story. It is moving towards its conclusion. Few more chapters ought to do it.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it!


	15. Chapter 15

Harvey’s bedroom looked about as Mike might have predicted, if he had ever given it more than a passing thought.  Stylish furnishings filled the large space, nothing too ostentatious but all of exceptional quality.  Mike’s gaze zeroed in on the king-size bed, covered with a comforter patterned in a subtle geometric design of chocolate brown, black, grey and taupe, along with contrasting pillows, shams, bolsters – the whole nine yards.  Complicated but not fussy.  No dust ruffle, thank the lord.  Turning in a slow circle, he admired the framed black and white photographs hanging on taupe walls, interspersed with laminated album covers which added pops of color.  A colorful and expensive looking throw rug covered part of the dark hardwood floor.

“This is nice,” Mike said, turning back towards the bed and almost colliding with Harvey, who was suddenly _right there_ , reaching for the hem of Mike’s t-shirt.  “Oh.  Okay.”  He raised his arms and allowed Harvey to tug the shirt over his head, and then stood there feeling all too conscious of his (comparatively) scrawny physique, and the bruises and welts scattered over his flesh.  Crossing his arms, his fingers brushed the top of the dressing on his side.  He cringed inwardly, suddenly feeling like the flesh and blood equivalent of a derelict building, vandalized and graffitied.

 _And very nearly condemned,_ he thought with dark amusement.

He was jarred out of his musings when Harvey took hold of his bicep, laid the other hand on the flat of his back, and guided him to the bed.  While he’d been turned away studying the room, the bolster and shams had been removed to the floor, piled messily in the corner, and the comforter was shoved back to reveal cream sheets.  “Sit,” said Harvey.

Mike sat, careful not to wince or allow any noises to escape which would signal discomfort, even though his side had begun to throb in time with his pounding heart.  In truth, the wound didn’t hurt all that much, and he would have tolerated a good deal more pain if it meant that this time Harvey kept on touching him.  Except….

 _Except_.

Except that now they had arrived at the moment about which Mike had fantasized so often, and unlike all of his imagined scenarios, certainty deserted him and fluttery panic settled inside his chest.  Frozen in place, he watched, bemused, as Harvey knelt in front of him, peeled away Mike’s socks, and then dragged Mike’s pajama bottoms over his narrow hips, gently maneuvering them the rest of the way off until Mike sat naked in front of him.

Incongruous memories from childhood bubbled up, of himself at six years old, sitting docile and sleepy after his bath, waiting for one of his parents to towel him dry and dress him in his Spiderman pajamas.  Not exactly a memory conducive to sexy-good-times, but manageable and easy enough to laugh off.  Unfortunately, this tame image was almost immediately blotted out, replaced and tainted by an unwelcome flash of something more recent.

 _Don’t, baby.  Don’t cry.  Daddy’s here.  Daddy’s got you.  Now smile pretty and tell Daddy you love him._  

“Lie down on your side,” Harvey urged.  “That’s it.”

_That’s it, Michael.  Oh, sweet boy.  You’re so good.  So perfect.  My own little pet attorney.  We’ll have such fun together._

He swallowed hard against the memories, lying down because Harvey had asked him to, but tensing against the cold trembling which threatened to shake free.   

Harvey’s hand stroked along his flank.  “Relax,” he murmured.  “Find a comfortable position.  Something that doesn’t put too much stress on your side.  You’re going to be there for a while.”

“Braggart.”  The attempted quip emerged weakly, Mike’s brain having flipped over to auto-pilot, or auto-snark, as Trevor had once dubbed it.  Part of him distantly registered Harvey moving behind him, the rustle of clothes being removed and drawers being opened and closed.  Those sounds faded under the force of the ugly movie playing in his mind.

_You okay down there?  Good.  Get comfortable because you’re going to be there for a while….I want you to suck me nice and gentle and slow.  I’ll let you know when I want to come.  And after we’re done, I’d better not find a single drop on my suit.  Any questions?  Good boy.  Now begin._ __

The bed dipped beside him.  Harvey’s warm hip nudged his and his hand returned, circling his back, steady and firm.  This was shaping up to be everything Mike had wanted for so long, since the day his briefcase full of pot flipped open and spilled its contents in front of a stranger.  Somehow the two of them had navigated their way from that hotel room to this moment, but unlike in his fantasies, Mike lay frozen with dread, his mind trapped by memories which left him shamed and on edge.

These last few days, he’d been telling himself that he was okay, insisting to Harvey that he was fine, but right now he felt impossibly far from “okay” and “fine.”  Harvey was saying something, but he may as well have been speaking ancient Sumerian, because none of the words made it through the white noise that filled Mike’s head.

His vision blurred and then to his absolute mortification, fat tears splashed against the back of his hand and soaked into the sheets.  He kept as still and silent as he could, hoping he could regain some control before Harvey noticed him coming unglued right in front of him.

It was a vain hope, of course.  A soft, wordless exclamation issued from Harvey’s throat, one part alarm, two parts exasperation and quintessentially Harvey.  And then his hand settled on Mike’s head, moving with such unexpected gentleness that Mike felt choked with grief.  A few more tears escaped as he fought against the surge of raw emotion, pulling in huge shuddering breaths which gradually – much too gradually – smoothed out while he filled his thoughts with nothing more  than the need to inhale and exhale, to get himself under control before he humiliated himself further.

His fragile composure nearly disintegrated when Harvey lay down behind him and wrapped him up in his arms, caressing his stomach and kissing the back of his neck.  Tiny pulses of panic jarred him, like the feeling of falling as you drift into sleep.  He just couldn’t fucking _relax_ because his brain couldn’t fully accept that St. John was gone, that he was at that moment decomposing into fish food somewhere beneath the ocean.  For a few moments, he fixated on what it would feel like to once more find himself back in that mansion in the Hamptons, an unwilling participant in the special brand of crazy that had been Sandor St. John.

 _You’re being stupid,_ he finally lectured himself.  _Knock this shit off._

It didn’t prove all that difficult to rein in his imaginings.  Even without being able to see him, it was undoubtedly Harvey behind him.  He could smell his unique Harvey fragrance...that intoxicating _eau de Specter_ … And he could hear his murmured reassurances, feel his knee pressed between his thighs, and the sheet sliding up and over their twined bodies, wrapping them in a light, luxurious, 1500 thread count cocoon.

Harvey’s hands moved on him with uncharacteristic tenderness.  Little by little, thoughts of St. John vanished.  Mike’s tension drained away and he calmed and went loose and pliant against the warm body behind him.  He might have relaxed right down into sleep, but the hand on his stomach slid a few inches south, one long finger finding Mike’s cock and stroking a stripe along its length before circling around to repeat the motion on the underside.

“You still okay with this?” Harvey murmured in his ear.  Mike shivered when the wide mouth touched his skin and he felt Harvey smile before he continued.  “While it’s true that sometimes these things do end in tears, it’s never a promising sign when they start out that way.”

That struck Mike as such a Harvey thing to say that he couldn’t stop the genuine laugh that burst out of him.  And just like that he was fully back with the program.  His wilted dick began to unwilt and he risked reawakening the pain in his side to twist around in Harvey’s embrace until they lay face to face.  Harvey’s expression was a good deal more somber than his lightly spoken comment had suggested.

Mike smiled at him in both reassurance and gratitude.  Realizing he hadn’t yet answered the question, he nodded.  “Still okay.  Or okay again.  Or more okay than a minute ago, but not as okay as I could be.  I mean, I’m prepared to concede that this whole business did more of a number on my head than I wanted to admit.  But I’m rallying.  Definitely rallying.”

Harvey’s gaze was steady and somewhat skeptical.  Mike felt himself blush.  He looked past Harvey to the far wall, then forced himself to meet the sober brown eyes.  “Someone,” he said faintly, “should probably kiss someone else right about – oh, okay th – ”

His words were abruptly cut off when Harvey leaned close and covered Mike’s mouth with his own.  The kiss was swift and sweet.  Harvey pulled back and studied Mike.  “So.  You want to make out for a few hours, like curious Victorian virgins?  Or are you up for a good hard fuck?”

“Uh.”  Mike blinked rapidly.  “What?”

“You’re calling the shots, Mike.  For obvious reasons.  So tell me: what’s your pleasure?”  Harvey propped his head on his hand and watched Mike, waiting, his expression serious and affectionate.

“I…Ah….”  Mike stopped and really thought about the question.  What _did_ he want?  “I think I’d like one from column A and one from column B.”

Mike nearly snickered at the look of long-suffering confusion on Harvey’s face, the way his head tilted to the side as he applied his agile mind to solving this latest puzzle.  “Care to elaborate?” he finally asked.

“I mean, I would like nothing better than for you to go caveman on my ass, but I’d probably end up spraying blood like a Tarantino movie all over your Egyptian sheets.  So I’ll just – ” here he disentangled himself and rolled away from Harvey once more “ – I’ll just arrange myself artfully on my side and let you creep up behind me and do all the work.”

“While you think of England?”

Mike grinned over his shoulder.  “If that’s what I’m thinking about, you’re doing something wrong.”

Harvey grunted.  “If you’re thinking at all by the time I’m done with you, it will be a goddamn miracle.” 


	16. Chapter 16

Harvey took a moment to indulge himself with a prolonged ogle of Mike.  Damn.  The kid looked good in his bed, naked and pliant and ready for him.  Hell, he looked good, period.  Harvey might have wished that better circumstances had brought him here, and that they hadn’t gotten off to such a rocky start.  Mike’s mini-meltdown had subsided, at least, and he could put that in the win column.  Not for the first time, he wished that St. John was still alive somewhere in the world so that he could hunt him down and exact a bit of payback on behalf of his associate.  With that option off the table, he was left with the more immediate goal of ensuring that Mike didn’t suffer any long-term effects from St. John’s calculated mindfuck.

_Harvey Specter, protector and nurturer.  And wasn’t that just a hell of a thing?_

He mentally shook off these uncomfortable thoughts and focused on the man in front of him.  The physical reminders of abuse disturbed Harvey, to be sure, but they would fade soon enough and he could easily see past them to the slender, muscled body and pale skin that seemed made to touch and explore.  Since he had just effectively promised to break Mike’s brain (in a good way), he intended to make good on that promise.  As if wondering when that might happen, Mike turned his head toward Harvey and gave him a pleading look.

“Oh, Jesus, Harvey.  Please tell me you’re not having second thoughts.”

“Certainly not.”  He settled behind Mike once more, cock nestling snug between his ass cheeks (and yes, daily bike riding had rendered them every bit as toned and squeezable as Harvey had imagined), one leg thrown over Mike’s, and let his fingers roam wherever he pleased.  And every place they roamed, he _was_ pleased.

In some spots, the pads of his fingers barely skimmed over soft skin, in others, he applied more pressure to explore the knobs of Mike’s shoulders, the line of his spine, the indentation just beneath a hipbone.  He delighted in the feel of ropy, elegant muscle concealed beneath Mike’s whippet-thin form.

As he mapped out Mike’s body, he also catalogued his reactions, half-wishing for a memory as flawless as Mike’s so that he would be certain to remember what had caused a particular sigh or moan, and whether it had been moist suction behind his ear or a teasing pinch of a nipple that made Mike squirm and bite his lip.

He took his time because after what Mike had been through, the kid deserved some goddamn consideration.  Some of his anger at that thought must have translated to his touch, because Mike tensed and shot Harvey another look over his shoulder, this one filled with a wariness that made Harvey’s heart hurt a little.  By way of apology, he smoothed a hand down Mike’s chest and stomach until he encountered his hard, leaking cock, and then he set to work jacking him off with steady, light strokes designed to tease and draw out his arousal.

A long sigh shuddered through Mike.  His eyes were tightly shut and Harvey could feel some new anxiety in the way he held himself, could see it in the crease between his eyebrows.  He didn’t know what had caused it, and wouldn’t stress Mike further by asking him to explain.  Adding lube to his palm, he continued to stroke Mike’s cock and used his other hand to wordlessly encourage him to roll onto his back.  Careful to avoid putting any weight on Mike’s wound, he straddled his thighs, stroking, thumbing, taking his time and savoring the weight and feel of the long, pretty cock.  Mike arched a little into his touch, his mouth falling open, his eyes glittering slits of dark blue.

“Any pain?” is what Harvey meant to ask, but what came out of his mouth in a hoarse whisper was, “God, Mike, you look amazing.”  He leaned forward for a quick taste of Mike’s red, bitten mouth, which turned into a long, dizzying kiss when Mike’s hands latched onto his biceps and wouldn’t let go.

Mike’s eyes opened all the way and his chest heaved once with some undecipherable emotion.  “That’s…” he began before faltering, face and chest going pink.  “Might have to call bullshit on that.  But – ” he hurried on without giving Harvey a chance to interrupt.  “ – but _you_.  I never would have thought….”

Harvey waited for Mike to finish, gave up and asked, “Thought what?”  He leaned on one elbow, hovering over Mike, still jacking him off, leisurely and confident, enjoying the slow, slow build.  His mouth found Mike’s throat and applied suction, moving in quarter inch increments, traveling from one side to the other in a shallow arc.  Halfway there, he had forgotten Mike’s unfinished thought, but felt the convulsive movement of his Adam’s apple, followed by the vibration of his larynx when he began to speak again.

“I never thought,” said Mike, “that you could look better than you do wearing your obscenely expensive suits.  But this….you….”

Harvey raised his head and watched Mike’s blush deepen from pink to red.  “Do go on,” he rumbled, aiming for droll but ruining the effect when he couldn’t quite manage the accompanying grin.  He slid his thumb up and down the length of Mike’s cock, increasing the pace and pressure.  Mike responded beautifully, gasping and squirming, humping into Harvey’s hand.

“You,” panted Mike, “are so….Do you even know?  God.  I just want to…fuck yeah.  Right there.  But you gotta go faster.  That’s – Harvey!  Jesus fuck!”

Mike jackknifed suddenly into a sitting position, curling upwards and grabbing Harvey’s arm in a viselike grip.  Harvey’s smug pleasure transformed instantly into concern.  “What is it Mike?  Too much?  Too rough?  Did I hurt you?”

Laughing faintly, Mike shook his head and kept on shaking it.  “Shut up, Harvey.  Just shut up.  Stop treating me like fucking glass.  I won’t break.  I was never going to break, no matter what he did.  I just – ”  His eyes were wide, blue and bright now as a limitless summer sky.  “It’s good.  What you were doing.  I could lose my mind, it feels so good.  Shit.  Honestly?  I don’t even care if you hurt me.  I don’t care.  I’d do anything for you.  Anything you want.  Move.  Get off of me.”

Harvey blinked and shook his head, confused.  Mike wasn’t making any sense.  “Make up your mind,” he said, not angry, just… _flummoxed_.  “Touch you?  Don’t touch you?  What is it that you want?”

Mike wriggled, impatient.  “Just get off of me and let me….”  He shoved at Harvey, surprising him with his strength.  “I’m trying to show you.”

Finally giving in to Mike’s request, Harvey reluctantly moved off of him and then watched, saliva suddenly in short supply, as Mike turned around and shuffled forward on his knees until he reached the headboard.  He grabbed on tight to the thick wood slats and bent low, knees spread wide.  Then he looked back over his shoulder.  “Here I am,” he said, a pleading note in his voice.  “Can’t we pretend that…I don’t know…that we’ve never met before?  That you don’t know a thing about me?  Will you…will you just fuck me as if I’m some stranger that you’ll never have to see again?”

Because he couldn’t stop himself from touching Mike, Harvey settled behind him, holding his hips.  “But I do know you.”  He picked a spot at the base of Mike’s spine and bent to give it an open-mouthed kiss, dragging his tongue in lazy swirls, tasting, inhaling Mike’s scent.  He lifted his head to see that Mike had pressed his face into the mattress.  “I know you, kid.  Don’t go repeating this to anyone, but I’ve wanted you for quite some time.”

Mike laughed again, the desperate sound muffled by the mattress.  “Then quit thinking and worrying and take what’s yours, as hard and fast as you want.”

Trying hard not to growl or roll his eyes, Harvey sat back on his heels.  “Not five minutes ago, you said – ”

“I _know_ what I said!”  Mike’s knuckles went white where he gripped the headboard.  “Now I’m saying I’ve changed my mind.  I don’t want your calm.  I don’t want your kindness and consideration.  I want normal.”

Harvey wasted perhaps a millisecond wondering whether he should be offended by Mike’s definition of “normal” (seriously, when was he ever anything but calm?), then spent the next millisecond calculating the distance to the foil packet on the nightstand.  He kept a hand on Mike’s back as he stretched for and grabbed the condom, ripped open the packet and rolled the condom on.  More words fought to spill out of his mouth, and he felt mild shock to realize that he was not so calm after all.  Still, he kept his mouth shut and tried his best to behave the way that Mike seemed to want: as if they had nothing more between them beyond this moment in this room and this bed.  It chipped at his control though, the way Mike looked in front of him, kneeling like a supplicant and vibrating with need.

Despite his shaking hands – which had to be nothing more than low blood sugar, never mind that they had finished dinner not that long ago – he managed to get himself covered up, slicked up and knuckle deep inside of Mike in fairly short order.  And okay, maybe the amount of time he spent fucking his fingers slowly into and out of Mike could be interpreted as the unasked for consideration, but he was damn well enjoying it, and so was Mike, if the sounds issuing from his throat were anything to go by.

“You like that?” Harvey asked, just to hear Mike’s answering, “nnnghh – god yeah.  No no no, go back – b-b-bend your finger again.  Okay.  Okay.  Good.  Good good good.”

His movements jerky and spastic, Mike started fucking himself back onto Harvey’s fingers with an increasing speed and abandon that had to be hurting his side.  Harvey’s own cock ached with the need to be inside Mike _right now_ , but he let Mike ride his fingers until he could see the sheen of perspiration coating his back.  He stopped Mike with a firm hand to his hip and slid his fingers out to the accompaniment of Mike’s hoarse exhortations of “ _more Harvey, please please please….”_

“Shhhh,” murmured Harvey, pressing himself to Mike’s entrance.  As he slid into the exquisite pressure and heat he gave a drawn out, heartfelt groan.  _Better than the Tesla,_ he thought, and only realized he’d spoken the words out loud when Mike’s non-verbal noises of pleasure merged with a surprised laugh that sounded genuinely happy.  “But I wonder,” said Harvey, “do you go from zero to sixty in 3.7 seconds?”

“Not since I was thirteen,” said Mike without missing a beat.

Even though Mike couldn’t see his face, Harvey smirked.  The brief exchange struck him as the most normal one they’d had for weeks.  He thought of saying so to Mike, just to hear him parry with something about an _exchange_ of fluids.  Instead, he took hold of Mike’s shoulder, pried one of Mike’s hands from the headboard and dragged it underneath Mike.  “Go on,” he said, taking hold of Mike’s hip so that he anchored him at shoulder and hip.  “Make like a thirteen year old and beat off.  I’ll race you to the finish line.”

“Wouldn’t the last one over the line be the winner?  Oh, and sidebar:  your dirty talk could use some polishing.”  But Mike did as requested, jarring himself, Harvey and the bed with his enthusiastic masturbation.

“Just taking my audience into account,” Harvey somehow found sufficient oxygen to say.  He might have continued, and made the obvious riff on Mike’s mention of “polishing,” but the little grunts and pants that Mike was making were too distracting.  Behind him, Harvey settled into a steady pace, praying for stamina.  The sight of Mike, the feel of him, everything about him sent Harvey’s arousal spiking straight up into the stratosphere.  His brain shut down and Mike’s as well (or so he flattered himself), and then there was only the rhythm of their thrusts, the damp slide of their flesh, their sharp, sudden breaths and stretched out sighs and groans.

When Harvey felt Mike start to tense he rasped in his ear, “let go of the bed,” and was gratified to see Mike’s immediate understanding.  Harvey knelt upright, dragging Mike with him, one arm wrapped around his waist.  Half a minute of hard, rapid-fire thrusting later they both came, seconds apart.  Embarrassingly winded, Harvey pulled out, disposed of the condom and collapsed next to a facedown Mike.

Harvey touched his shoulder, feeling the heat rising off of his skin.  “Hey,” he whispered.  “Quick.  Name all of the current Supreme Court Justices who attended Harvard.”

“Uh.  Shit.  Sleepy, Dopey, Kili, Fili and…um…Bifur, Bofur and Bombur?”

“Hah.  Mission accomplished.”

A sleepy blue eye regarded him.  “What?”

Harvey rolled into him and pressed his lips to Mike’s forehead.  “Go to sleep.”

“’kay – ahh.  Ow.”

Carefully, so as not to start another outburst, Harvey asked, “Your side?”

“Hurts like fuck.”  Mike’s eyes closed and a goofy smile stretched across his face.  “So totally worth it though.”


	17. Chapter 17

Monday at 6:58 am, Mike dropped into his chair – a little too hard and a little too fast – and gave a low groan as his ass greeted him with a “howdy and welcome to Monday” twinge.  Memories of what had caused the pain softened the sound into a breathy laugh.  He switched on his computer as Gregory came around the corner and he met the other associate’s sullen glance with his own smug grin, feeling as if nothing could unbalance him today.  Last night, Harvey had expertly fucked him into insensibility – twice – and then wrapped his arms around him, kissed his temple, stroked his hair, and held him close all night, allowing Mike the most restful sleep he’d had since…probably ever.

There had been no nightmares.  For the first time since he’d woken up in St. John’s bed, Mike thought he could believe that it was really over, and that he could move forward – preferably sharing a future with Harvey.  Whether or not that came to pass remained to be seen, but he wouldn’t worry about the future just yet.  Not today.

Today he wanted to stupid-dance or laugh or get Harvey’s likeness tattooed on his ass.  It even felt fantastic to be back at work.

That feeling lasted for about five more seconds.

“Hey, loser.”

Taking a deep calming breath, he swiveled his chair to meet Gregory’s hairy eyeball with an insincere grin.

“And a happy Monday morning to you, too.  Been keeping yourself out of trouble while I was gone?”

“Ha ha.  Listen to you.  You sound pretty chipper for the guy who signed the client of the century and then managed to lose him less than a week later.  That’s got to be some kind of a record.”

Mike tilted his head.  “You do watch the news, right?  Because if you do, you probably saw a little something about the guy dying.  So technically, I didn’t lose him, the whole world lost him when he fell out of the sky and sank to the bottom of the ocean.”

“Oh, that’s cold, Ross.  Downright callous, in fact.  We all thought you were gone last week because you were so grief-stricken you couldn’t function.  I have to say, though, you don’t look at all sad.  So what’s the story?  Did Harvey suspend you?  Or were you just too embarrassed to show your face around here?”

Blinking a few times, Mike just managed to keep his fake grin in place as he processed what Gregory had said.  Although Harvey had assured him that his involvement with St. John had been covered up, it hadn’t quite sunk in with him, and he hadn’t bothered to concoct an explanation for his absence last week.  With no plausible story ready to hand, he chose inscrutability, shrugging and stating, “None of the above,” while continuing to stare Gregory down.   Eventually the other associate grew fidgety, muttered something about needing coffee, and disappeared in the direction of the break room.

Flipping open the first folder on his desk, Mike got busy reviewing the contracts for their newest client.  Immersed as he was in searching for flaws or weaknesses in the language, he nearly missed the twitch of movement on his computer screen.  Seconds later, a melodic bleep alerted him to the arrival of an instant message.  He spun his chair towards the laptop, preparing to fire back a humorous reply to Harvey or Rachel or Donna.  Instead, all the blood seemed to drain from his body and he froze, stunned, as he read the words enclosed in the rectangle at the bottom of his screen.

_“Have you missed me, Michael?”_

His brain couldn’t seem to focus on the message…it could only be…but it couldn’t…not possible.  Not fucking possible.

As he re-read the message, he could almost hear a raspy baritone, could almost feel it warming his ear.

Wit deserted him but he managed to type back, “ _Who is this??”_

 _Bleep,_ went his computer and seconds later more words appeared.

_“Sweet boy, you shouldn’t have run.”_

“Oh crap oh crap oh crap.”  It had to be St. John.  How was it possible?

Mike typed:  _“If this is who I think it is, why aren’t you dead?”_

Seconds crept by while Mike waited for a response.  Perspiration slid down his back.  He glanced behind him but no one lingered nearby to read the words on his screen.  Should he call Harvey?  Another bleep made him jump. 

_“A little theater.  A bit of misdirection.  Thanks to you my death became a requirement.  So I died.  You should try it sometime.  So liberating.”_

Mike’s heart hammered in his chest.  Did anyone else in the world know that St. John had staged his own death?  He had to keep him online.  Maybe this was the chance the authorities needed to track him down.  _“Impressive.  You have everyone fooled.  How did you do it?  Where are you?”_

_“Wrong questions, Michael.  You should be asking what I require from you now.”_

A sound of disbelief, half grunt and half squeak, escaped Mike.  His fingers raced over his keyboard.  _“You’re a murderer.  The whole world knows what you are.  You can’t ask any more of me.  Leave me alone.”_

_“Stop, Michael.  You’re boring me.”_

Mike rubbed his forehead with one hand.  He tried to slow his breathing, quell the panic blossoming in his chest.  He reached for his phone, biting hard at his lower lip.  Before he had a chance to dial Harvey’s number, his computer bleeped again.

_“Of all of them, you were the best.”_

Nausea and anger swirled together inside of him.  _“We’re done.  This is finished,”_ he typed.

_“It can be, if you follow one more simple instruction.”_

_Fuck._ Tension flowed into him, filling every pore, every cell.  He lifted the phone and dialed, even as his computer signaled the arrival of another message.

_“Michael?  Your future depends on your agreement.”_

“Yeah, Mike,” came Harvey’s voice in his ear, reassuringly sane and normal.  “What’s up?”

He opened his mouth to explain, but the next message that appeared on his screen trapped the words in his throat.

_“Answer me right now or Harvey Specter is a dead man.”_

“Harvey,” Mike breathed into the phone.  He cleared his throat and spoke more clearly.  “Uh, sorry.  Must have butt-dialed you.”

“Which is why you’ve got the phone to your ear?”

“Heh,” said Mike intelligently, even as his fingers stumbled over the keyboard.

_“Tell me what you want.”_

Harvey gave an annoyed huff.  “What do you want, Mike?”

_Bleep.  “Simple, Michael.  Never, until the day you leave this life, will you speak a word to anyone about what happened between us.”_

“Rookie?  You there?  Speak up, damn it.  I really don’t have time for this.”

Mike felt like his head might burst open.

“I…I’ll call you back.”  He hung up on Harvey, certain that he would pay for it later.

He typed one word, _“Agreed,”_ and waited for St. John’s response.  A handful of seconds later, it arrived.

_“Very good, baby.  Such a good boy.  I’m still miffed with you for running, though.  That has consequences.”_

_“You fucking shot me!”_

_“Technically, that wasn’t me.  Still, I’ll concede you’ve already suffered for your lapse.  So here is a gift:  when Louis Litt arrives at your desk in about one minute, remind him about Hartford.”_

_“Hartford?”_

_“You don’t need to understand.  He will, though.”_

_“What the fuck did you do???”_

_“Manners, Michael.”_

Mike ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed hard at his scalp.  Had someone snuck a hit of acid into his coffee this morning?  He brain felt completely off-kilter, as if he had slipped into a hallucinatory netherworld.  What was St. John playing at?

He lifted his hands to type another question just as his peripheral vision was filled to either side of him.  To his left, Louis bore down on him like a deliriously avenging angel, and Harvey sauntered up from the right, cool and amused and looking hotter than a pepper sprout.

Mike’s fingers flew over the keys like agitated hummingbirds.

_“sorry sorry i agree will u lv me alone 4evr????”_

Louis and Harvey reached his cubicle simultaneously and loomed above him, elbows jostling for position on the ledge, reflecting one another like images in a funhouse mirror.  Ominously, Louis held a sheet of paper and grinned down on Mike with triumphant malice.

_“Yes, sweet boy.  Abide by the terms.  And make me proud of you.”_

_”K,”_ was all the response Mike had time for.  He minimized the chat screen and opened his email program.

“Mike, Mike, Mike,” Louis crowed.  “Dear, sweet, little innocent Mike.”  He waved the sheet of paper at Harvey and bestowed a sly grin on Mike.  “This one is just full of surprises.”

“What the hell, Louis?”  Harvey made a grab for the paper, only to have it snatched out of his reach.  “Before you give one of us a paper cut, why don’t you show me what you’ve got there?”

“Oh, nothing much.  Just a few screen shots from a video someone sent me.  Seems our young phenom here has taken a page from Pam Anderson.”

Mike rolled his eyes.  “Really?  You couldn’t pull a more recent reference from your ass?”  He knew he should feel more alarm over Louis’ apparent possession of his drunken indiscretion, but knowing Harvey as he now did (Biblically, as it were), he suspected that his lover would either be amused, turned on, or both by the video file that St. John had sent to Louis.  And he could only feel relief that St. John had not chosen to reveal the truth about Harvard instead.

Harvey turned a speculative gaze toward Mike, just as Louis said, “Well, Mike, when I email it to Jessica, the senior partners and Grace in Human Resources, maybe one of them can come up with something a little snappier and…you know….”  He snapped his fingers several times in Mike’s face.  “A little more deserving of a snotty little hipster like Mike Ross.”

Harvey’s mouth pulled down in annoyance.  “Oh, for god’s sake, Louis.  What’s this all about?”

“I’m about to be vindicated in assuming Mike might be amenable to a little casting couch action.”

Now Harvey grew completely still, his expression suddenly so dangerous that Louis took one step backward and then another and another.  Harvey followed, stalking him with seeming lethal intent until he had him backed up against the wall opposite Mike’s cubicle.  “Shut your goddamn mouth,” he said, voice deceptively soft.  “Or I’ll – ”

“Hartford,” Mike stated clearly.  “Hartford.  Hartford.”

“Mike?”  Harvey spared him a glance over his shoulder.  “Please tell me you’re not stroking out on me.”

Mike stood and moved past Harvey into Louis’ line of vision and then leaned closer to whisper in his (alarmingly hairy) ear.  “I know about Hartford.”

He watched Louis’ mouth open and close, open and close.  “How?” squeaked Louis, face gone pale and beaded with sweat.

Harvey gave Mike an interested look and put a few inches between himself and Louis.

“If you do anything with that vid file,” said Mike, “besides delete it and shred those screen shots you’re holding, you’ll find out.  On the other hand, we can just call it even and never speak of this again.”

Louis appeared frozen in place, and his eyes were so wide the whites showed.  A spark of petty satisfaction warmed Mike as he noted the stark fear that radiated from the other man.  He wondered what the significance of Hartford was, and then immediately decided that he would rather not know.  Where Louis was concerned, it was probably something truly appalling and cringe worthy.

Finally, Louis broke from his paralysis, his hands coming together to crumple the printed screen shots into a compact wad.  “Done,” he said, handed the paper to Mike, and was gone so quickly he may as well have disapparated.

Mike and Harvey were left alone in the hallway staring at one another

Harvey was the first to speak.  “Well,” he said, “should I even ask what that was all about?”

“I’m – ”  Mike stopped on the verge of explaining.  His heart raced in alarm as he clamped his mouth shut.

“Mike?”

_St. John had threatened Harvey’s life._

“Just…I don’t know.  A bluff that worked.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Mike gave Harvey a tight smile.  “Nope.  Can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Resisting the urge to cross his arms in a defensive posture, Mike avoided Harvey’s probing gaze and made his way back to his cubicle, once again sitting a little too quickly, although this time he managed to stifle his groan.  He considered what he could or couldn’t say, and hated St. John just a little more for making him lie to Harvey.

“Mike?  If you have something on Louis, I think you owe it to me to share it so I can tease him without mercy.”

“I sort of made a promise to someone.”

“I see,” said Harvey, voice flat and disappointed.  He gaze dropped to the crumpled paper in Mike’s hand.

“Oh.”  Mike brightened a little, seeing a way to distract Harvey.

He handed the screen shots to Harvey and watched as he carefully smoothed the page out on the ledge in front of Mike’s cubicle.  Harvey’s eyes widened and he turned the page around, tilted his head and turned the paper back the other way.

“Is…” Harvey began, and then cleared his throat.  “Wow.”  A smile tugged at his mouth.  “Would it be insensitive to ignore for the moment how wrong it is that anyone but me has this in their possession and just say, ‘my, my, aren’t you the bendy one?’”

“Probably.  I forgive you, though.”

“I don’t suppose you have the live action version of this?”

Mike cut his gaze to Gregory’s desk to make sure he hadn’t yet returned.  He gave Harvey his dirtiest smile.  “I _am_ the live action version.”

“You little fucker.  You realize I’ll be thinking about that all day?”

Mike made an elaborate show of checking his watch.  “Only…fourteen hours to go.”

“Hmm.  Since you’re still recuperating, let’s make it ten.  We can get out of here at five.”

Mike rolled his eyes.  “Best boss ever.”

Harvey was smiling at Mike, warm and affectionate.  His gaze skipped past him for a second or two and then returned, still warm, but his eyes had gone tight at the corners.  He looked directly at Mike, though, and murmured, “Damn straight.” 

Mike watched him strut down the hall and breathed out slowly in lieu of sliding under his desk in a puddle of relief.  He picked up the contract he had been working on, preparing to lose himself in dense legalese for the next several hours.  Before he could begin, he glanced at his computer screen and froze.  A final IM from St. John had popped up and hung there, clear and unambiguous.

_“Make Daddy proud of you.  I’ll be watching.”_

“Shit.  Shit!  Son-of-a-bitch.  Fuck!”  He jumped out of his chair, shoved past Gregory and ignored his enraged shout at the coffee he had dumped over the front of his shirt.

Running full out, it took less than thirty seconds to reach Harvey’s office.  He zipped straight past Donna and found Harvey already on the phone with Benjamin in IT.

“Can you trace it or not?” he was asking, and seemed unsurprised and unperturbed to see Mike skid into his office, panting and red-faced.

“Stop,” said Mike.  “Hang up. Please.”

Harvey put his hand over the mouthpiece.  “Sit down and shut up.”

Mike shook his head.  “No.  No no no no.  Just wait.  You have to listen to me.  Just hang up and listen for one minute.”

After a tense moment where they stared one another down and Harvey’s mouth grew pinched with disapproval, Harvey spoke coolly into the phone.  “Hold off on that trace.  I’ll have to call you back.”  He hung up and leaned back in his chair, pen tapping on his desk.  “All right.  I’m listening.”

“Okay.”  He paced in front of Harvey’s desk, fighting the urge to wring his hands.  “You saw the IM, so you know – ”

“I know that it was from St. John?  That he’s alive?  That you lied to me again?  That you didn’t trust me enough to come to me?  Again?  Yeah.  I know all that.  What I’m not getting here is why.”

Mike felt like he’d been gut-punched.  He stopped pacing and just stared at Harvey, eyes wide and pleading.  “I didn’t know he survived.  I swear.  Not until just a few minutes ago.  That’s why I called you.  But then….”

“Then?”

Mike hesitated, already fearing how Harvey would react.

“Mike.  Tell me now or I’ll pick up this phone and have Benjamin finish what he should be already doing.”

“He threatened you.”

A beat of silence.  “Me?”

“To kill you, actually.”

Harvey’s eyes darkened and he actually smiled.  “From where?  Outer Mongolia or wherever it is that he’s gone to ground?”

“You’ve seen what he’s capable of!  And with his billions…”

“Whoa.  Slow down.  You’ve got to learn to stop just reacting and actually use that freakish brain of yours.  Now, officially the man is still dead.  While it’s likely that he squirreled away some extra cash for emergencies, there’s no way he can access the bulk of his fortune without giving himself away.  He’s bluffing.”

Mike backed up until he felt the couch behind him, and sat heavily.  What Harvey said made sense, so why didn’t he feel reassured?  He stared at the floor and imagined himself kneeling there in front of St. John, with Harvey lying pale and lifeless, a bloom of red on his chest.  He jumped at the feel of a hand on his arm and realized that Harvey had moved to sit next to him.

“Hey, relax.”  He rubbed Mike’s arm for a minute, firm and soothing.  “You need to get it out of your head that he’s omnipotent, because I guarantee you, he most definitely is not.”

Not caring for the moment who might walk by the office, Mike let himself sag against Harvey and lean his forehead on his shoulder, taking comfort in his nearness.  “No,” he said.  “That would be you, right?”  He was only halfway kidding.

Harvey draped an arm around him and gave him a brief hug.  “Now you’re getting it.”

They sat like that for a few minutes until finally Mike sat up, put a few inches between them and sighed.  “Will I have to talk to the cops again?”

“What do you think?”

Mike sighed.  “Shit.  This is going to suck.”

Harvey was quiet for a few seconds.  “I’m going to call IT back now.  We’ll need to get Jessica involved.  Once the police are contacted, they’ll most likely bring in the FBI.  When the press gets a whiff, the real shit storm will be unleashed.  Before it’s all over, it’s going to get ugly and crazy, but I want you to always keep one thing planted firmly in your mind.  Mike?  You listening?”

He shook himself.  “Sure.  Uh…IT, Jessica, FBI, shit storm.”  He gave a stark laugh.  “Followed by disgrace, unemployment, tabloid fodder.  Does that cover everything?”

“Almost.”  Harvey took hold of Mike’s chin and tilted it toward him, staring at him with an intensity that made Mike shiver.  “Pay attention.  This is important.  None of this was your fault.  I know you realize this intellectually, but don’t forget it.  Repeat it like a mantra until you believe it.  You didn’t ask for any of what happened, no matter how anyone else tries to spin it.  I’m going to be with you every step of the way.  If you end up needing an attorney, I’m your man.”

Mike started to nod, and then shot Harvey an anxious squint.  “Wait.  You think I’ll need an attorney?”

“I did say ‘if’ you need one.  Let’s just see how things play out, all right?”  He didn’t wait for an answer, instead standing and returning to his desk.  He picked up the phone to make the call to IT.

Mike slumped on the couch, wondering how a day which had started off so great had gone to shit so fast.


	18. Chapter 18

In the end, Benjamin’s considerable IT skills proved inadequate to tracing St. John’s location from his instant messages, which surprised no one but Benjamin.  When Harvey called him two hours later, one of his co-workers answered, and he could hear Benjamin in the background, cursing steadily.

“He’s a fucking evil genius,” Benjamin growled when he finally picked up the phone.  “If not for the, you know, _evil_ part, I think I might be tempted to seek him out and worship at his feet.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Harvey muttered, keeping an eye on Mike, who he had installed in his office, and who was currently sitting on the floor in front of the couch, elbow deep in contracts, pretending not to listen too closely to Harvey’s side of the conversation.  “So, what you’re telling me is that you have no clue as to his current location?”

“Yep.”

Harvey frowned and heaved a sigh.  “So what do you suggest now?”

“I – oh, hang on.”

Harvey winced at the loud thumps in his ear, which he guessed was the sound of the receiver being dropped to the desktop.  Benjamin’s excited voice screeched indignantly, still too close to the phone.  Harvey pulled the receiver away from his ear and met Mike’s curious gaze.

“Hey guys.  What the hell?  You can’t just – put that back!  That is the property of Pearson Hardman.  I don’t care if you’re – shit.”  Seconds later, Benjamin was back on the phone.  “They took it.  They just showed up out of nowhere and grabbed it right off my desk.”

Harvey closed his eyes and spoke with exaggerated patience.  “Who took what?”

“The Feds!  Four of them.  They stormed in here like, you know, jackbooted thugs and grabbed Ross’ laptop.  Flashing ID, which, like, you wouldn’t believe how easy it is to fake those things.  How did they even know what was up?  Dude, that shit was crazy.”

“First of all, calm down.  I know for a fact that you can speak with more intelligence than the average thirteen year old, since I’ve heard you.”  He waited until he heard Benjamin’s long, aggrieved sigh.  “Did they say anything before they left?”

“Oh.  I think a couple of them mentioned something about heading down to your office.”

He looked up as a solemn Donna appeared in his doorway, shadowed by a man and woman in mediocre suits.  “Thanks for your help,” he said, hanging up the phone before Benjamin could reply.  “Come on in, agents.”

Mike struggled to his feet, papers sliding off his lap and fluttering to the floor.  Harvey tried to quell his worry for the younger man, who had been uncommonly silent for most of the morning.  Mike stared at the FBI agents as if he expected them to draw their weapons at any moment, or handcuff him and drag him away.

The older of the two, a tall, willowy woman with grey hair cut severely short, strode into Harvey’s office, one hand extended, and the other holding her identification.  “Harvey Specter?  I’m Special Agent Ragnvaldsdottir.”  She shook his hand.  Her long, delicate looking fingers were surprisingly strong.  Gesturing to the other agent, she continued, “And this is Special Agent Yee.”

Harvey shook the hand of the diminutive Asian man, and found himself staring for just a beat too long at the startling pretty face and perfect bow of a mouth.  He cleared his throat, gesturing in Mike’s direction.  “My associate, Mike Ross.”

Mike stepped closer, hand extended, and went through the same ritual.  “Does the FBI even have any non-special agents?” he asked, laughing nervously.

Harvey watched as Mike, too, stared at Agent Yee with transparent admiration.

Agent Ragnvaldsdottir’s mouth tightened.  “Could we sit down and have a chat?”

“Uh, sure.”  Mike returned to the couch, bending over to gather up the loose papers and stuff them back in the expandable file.  Harvey couldn’t have stopped himself from admiring Mike’s perfect bottom if Agent Ragnvaldsdottir had threatened him with water boarding at that moment.  When he managed to drag his gaze away, he realized the room had grown quiet and still, and that both agents had also stopped to admire the view.

Harvey stepped behind one of the chairs in front of the couch and cleared his throat, cutting his eyes between Agent Ragnvaldsdottir and the chair significantly until she got the message and sat abruptly, not even bothering to blush.  Agent Yee sat also, although his cheeks did turn a charming shade of pink.  He pulled a notepad and cheap plastic pen from his inside pocket and waited, pen poised and ready to take notes. 

“So, Mr. Ross,” began Agent Ragnvaldsdottir, “tell us about Sandor St. John.  And don’t leave anything out.”

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

By the time he finished giving the FBI agents a (nearly) complete but heavily sanitized version of his interactions with St. John, Mike was overly warm and damp with perspiration.  Despite several furtive glances towards Harvey, who sat next to him on the couch, he had received zero guidance on how much to say, and what (if anything) to leave out.  Anxiety burned in his gut.  He had defied St. John, and suspected it was only a matter of time until he paid for speaking out.  Worse, St. John might follow through on his threat against Harvey. 

“Huh,” was all the female agent had to say when Mike wound to a stop.  She stared out the window as if mulling his story over.

Agent Yee chewed on his pen.

Harvey sat with his arms crossed, looking pinched and angry.

Growing nervous at the silence in the room, Mike cleared his throat.  “So, uh, Agent…Raw…uh…Toad’s Daughter – ”

“Ragnvaldsdottir,” she corrected him.

“Right.  Rangold’s Daughter.”

“Dottir.”  She pronounced it “Doe-Tear.”

Mike heard Harvey irritated grunt, and was tempted to laugh.  Immediately on the heels of that impulse, a surge of undiluted fear shot through him before subsiding again.  He pressed his lips together, took a deep breath, wrestled his thoughts back into order and continued.

“Agent,” he said, and then flicked a glance at Agent Yee and began again.  “Agents.  Can you find him?  I mean, before he comes after, uh, anyone.”  He did not look at Harvey, but heard the same annoyed grunt, and wondered vaguely how often during a typical day Harvey made that sound.

A smile, serene and a little smug, stretched Agent Ragnvaldsdottir’s lips.  “As we speak, two of the most talented agents from our Cyber Crimes unit are in possession of your laptop.  I am completely confident that they will pinpoint him, sooner rather than later.”  She shook her head, seeming to struggle to bring her bubbling excitement under control.  “Prepare yourself, Mike.  When we apprehend him, you’ll need to strap yourself in, because this is going to be a huge story and you are in for one wild rollercoaster of a ride.”

Mike stared at her, his mouth going dry.  “That’s…uh.  That sounds….”  Not wishing to seem ungrateful, he searched for a tactful way of expressing how he felt about her warning.  Harvey saved him from having to complete the sentence.

“Well, fuck,” said Harvey.  “How nice for you that you find this all so amusing.  I’m pretty sure Mike is not amused, and I know I’m not.  So why don’t you wipe that smirk off of your face and try again.”

The smirk vanished.  She tilted her head to one side, frowning.  “Look, guys.  You know how this works.  The media gets wind of a juicy story, sinks its teeth in and doesn’t let go until it wrings out every single drop that it can.  Nothing the Bureau can do about that.”

“You don’t think so?”  Harvey’s mouth lifted on one side into a half-smile.  His eyes grew darkly amused, but Mike knew him well enough by now to recognize the underlying anger behind his expression.  “The Bureau has, I assume, gathered enough evidence by now to convict St. John on multiple counts of murder.  Is that correct?”

Agent Ragnvaldsdottir’s nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed.  “We do.”

“Hmm.” 

Mike felt Harvey’s eyes on him, but continued to study the two agents. 

An uncomfortable silence fell in the room.  The two FBI agents shifted in their seats and eyed one another, both appearing baffled.

Finally, Agent Yee spoke for the first time.  “We could…uh…keep Mr. Ross as an anonymous source.”  He flinched a little when Agent Ragnvaldsdottir inhaled sharply.  She started to speak, but Harvey interrupted her.

“What,” he said, “would it do for your careers with the Bureau to be the agents to capture Sandor St. John?”

The answer to that question was so obvious that neither agent bothered to verbalize it, simply staring at Harvey with pointed interest.  Mike experiencing a sharp stab of lust at the shark’s smile that stretched Harvey’s mouth.

“So here’s your choice,” said Harvey.  “Put Mike’s name out there and bring down all of the embarrassment, inconvenience, notoriety and potential danger that would cause him.  Or keep your goddamn mouths shut and take the limelight for yourselves, do the news show circuit, put your careers on the fast track to…whatever it is that makes a special agent’s heart go ‘thumpity thump thump.’  Seems pretty clear cut to me.  So.  What do you say?”

The two agents gave each other a long look, and Mike could practically see the glee zinging back and forth between them.  Still, when Agent Ragnvaldsdottir spoke, her voice exuded boredom with a dash of irritation.

“Fine.  Out of consideration for Mike – ”

“Who is,” Harvey interrupted her, “after all, a victim in all of this.”

“Yes.  Sure. All right.  We will keep his name and the details of his experience with St. John completely confidential.  Satisfied?”

“Always.”  Harvey stood, strode to his desk and retrieved two business cards from a holder.  He handed one to each agent.  “Be sure to keep us notified of any progress.  If you locate St. John, I want you to call me right away.  Understood?”

Agent Ragnvaldsdottir snatched a card from him with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, and then reached into her pocket and extracted her own card.  “We sure will.  And you be sure to do the same.  All right?  Good.  Yee, let’s get going.”  She stomped out of the office.

Agent Yee paused for a moment, smiling apologetically at Mike.  “Don’t worry,” he said.  “We will find him, you know.  She may have the manners of a socially retarded pit bull at times, but she really is very good at her job.  I’ve learned a lot from her.”  He stood up and gave a small, weirdly shy wave at Mike and Harvey before following his colleague out the door.

Mike cast a wide-eyed gaze at Harvey, took a deep breath and exhaled shakily.  “Wow,” he said, sagging back into the couch.

“What’s the matter, rookie?  You need a hug?”

“Need?  No.”

“Good.  Then get back to work.”  He waved towards the expandable file Mike had abandoned earlier.

Mike nodded.  Part of him felt disappointed at not being coddled by Harvey, if even just a tiny bit.  For the most part, he was grateful for the distraction that work provided.  He slid back down to the floor and dove back into the contracts, but looked up a moment later, startled, when his peripheral vision caught sight of Harvey moving rapidly toward the door.  “Harvey?”

“Be right back,” Harvey shot over his shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway.

Mike frowned, trying hard not to be hurt by Harvey’s abrupt departure.  There was lack of coddling, and then there was outright callousness.  _You knew what you were getting into when you got involved with him,_ he told himself.

Taking another deep breath, he turned back to the contracts, silently lecturing himself to trust Harvey, who always seemed to know what to do. 

 A minute later, he grinned, snorting, and then found himself laughing out loud in the empty office.  He shook his head.  “Thumpity thump thump?” he said to Harvey’s desk, laughing a little too loud and a little too long, until Donna stuck her head in the office and gave him a questioning look, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s nothing,” he said.  And then, when she still stood there, pinning him with her gaze, “I’m okay.  Really.”

She nodded, but still came over to sit next to him on the floor, one arm around his shoulder.  And if his head angled to one side to rest against hers, just for half a minute, neither one mentioned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. So sorry this update took so long. We had a fire in our home and can't move back for a couple of months, possibly more. Just getting my equilibrium back enough to write. Oh, and by the way, fires suck. So don't have a fire.
> 
> ANYway....once again, thanks for the reviews and kudos, and for sticking with the story (if you are, and if you're reading this I guess you are) despite the slow updates. (And who else is making big black "X's" on your calendar, waiting for season two to start?) I will try very hard to get the next chapter written more quickly (but I won't sign anything to that effect because every time I say that, some new, fresh hell descends upon my life.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was already in progress when I watched S2 Ep. 3 and noticed that Mike's apartment is on the 2nd floor and not the 4th. But certain things didn't make sense if he's only on the 2nd floor, so I left it as is.

Harvey caught up to the two special agents at the elevator.  Yee was on the phone, nodding, listening, and speaking urgently.  Ragnvaldsdottir acknowledged Harvey with a curt nod.

“Something you forgot?” she asked.

“No,” he said, drawing the word out, “That would be you.”

“Uh huh.  Well, go on.  Enlighten me.”

“Mike needs protection.”

Her eyes narrowed and her lips twitched as if holding back a smile.  “He’ll get it.”

Choosing to ignore her oddly flat inflection, Harvey said, “Good.  I want him at my place.  It’s safer than the crap hole he lives in.  And I want to know immediately when you pinpoint St. John’s location.”

In the short pause that followed, the only sounds were muted laughter from around the corner, and the soft murmurs of Agent Yee.  Then, “No,” said Agent Ragnvaldsdottir.

Harvey’s tense muscles gave an involuntary twitch.  He took a step towards her but she stood her ground.  “What did you say?”

She raised her chin pugnaciously.  “We’ve got this handled Specter.”

Harvey took a deep breath, preparing to sear her face off with the heat of his anger, but at that moment Agent Yee ended his call and stepped up to Ragnvaldsdottir, his murmur loud enough for Harvey to hear.

“You were right,” said Yee.  “He’s here in New York.”

Harvey’s pent up breath left him in a rush.  “Great.  That’s it then.  You’ve got him?”

Yee turned a serious expression his way.  “Not quite, Mr. Specter.  Our cyber guys located the coffee shop he sent those IM’s from, but he’s long gone.  No doubt he’s changed his appearance by now.  He’s a smart guy.  All he needs to do is lay low, move around, stay under the radar.  This isn’t anywhere near to being over.”

Ragnvaldsdottir gave Yee a hard stare and then addressed Harvey again.  “That’s not to say we won’t get him, but it may take a while.”

 “Which,” Harvey ground out, “is why Mike needs protection, and he needs to come stay with me.”

“That does sound cozy, Specter.  But if we let you and Mike just hole up together and play house, the chances of catching St. John go way down.”

“Hey.  Lose the snide attitude, agent, and explain whatever brilliant plan you have concocted to apprehend the man who is apparently the criminal mastermind of the century.”

Ragnvaldsdottir raised one eyebrow, but didn’t answer.

“Okay, fine,” said Harvey.  “I can be snide too.  My question stands, though.  What are you going to do?”

The elevator door opened, and all three of them moved out of the way of the people exiting.  Harvey motioned them to follow him out of the elevator bay to a grouping of leather sofas and chairs which he knew to be appallingly uncomfortable.  Nobody sat down.

Agent Ragnvaldsdottir leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.  “Look, Specter.  You’re under the mistaken impression that we owe you some kind of an explanation.  We don’t.  No, don’t get all huffy on me. Just listen.  You seem like a thoroughly persistent bastard, and we certainly don’t need you working at cross purposes and potentially screwing up our operation.  Which is why I’m willing to fill you in as much as I’m able.  _But_ – and I hope you’re paying attention to this part – I need a promise from you in return.”

Harvey answered without hesitation.  “Name it.”

She moved away from the wall and stood inches from him, their faces almost on the same level.  “Not one word to Mike.”

Anger swept through him.  “You cannot be serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

Harvey struggled to reign in his fury.  “You want to use him as bait.”

Hard expression unchanging, Agent Ragnvaldsdottir nodded.  “Precisely.”

“Without his knowledge.”  He turned from her to Agent Yee.  “Do you agree with this.  Do you think this is a good idea?”

With a quick flick of his eyes to his colleague, Yee nodded slowly.  “It may sound unfair to you, but yes, I do believe this is the best way.  If Mr. Ross is aware of the situation, he may act differently and alert St. John to our presence.  And make no mistake: we will be there every second of the day, watching Mike, watching his place.  Just as we have been for the last several days.”

“Jesus,” muttered Harvey shaking his head in disgust and turning partly away.  After a few seconds he felt Yee’s hand on his arm and sent him a sidelong glare.  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Hey,” said Yee with a wry quirk of his lips, “we’re the FBI.  But in all seriousness, Mr. Specter, would you rather have Mike – and yourself – be looking over your shoulders indefinitely?  This way we can apprehend St. John and Mike gets himself some closure.”

Harvey sighed.  “Shit.  He’s going to be pissed when he finds out.”

“Maybe for a minute.  But I’ll bet he’s more relieved than angry when we wrap this up.”

Harvey wasn’t so sure, and considered saying as much, but Special Agent Ragnvaldsdottir spoke first.

“Don’t forget Specter.  Not one word to Ross or we’ll lock you up so fast your head will rotate like Regan from _The Exorcist_.”

“Oh yeah?”  He opened his mouth to verbally eviscerate her, snapped it shut in frustration, and then muttered weakly, “Fine.  But just for the record, your movie references suck.”

 

S*S*S*S*S*S 

 

**_Four Weeks Later_ **

Mike gave a heartfelt sigh and arched his back, trying to work out the kinks that had built up from fourteen-plus hours of hunching over the desk and reading through seemingly endless stacks of corporate merger documents from a new client.  Rubbing his neck, he bit back a yawn and eyeballed the remaining pile.  It was only a little after nine o’clock, and while not too long ago he could have breezed along for another few hours, his stamina wasn’t quite back to where it should be.  He was back to riding his bike, but long days at his desk still wiped him out.

He considered his options, imagining Harvey’s reactions, weighing the difference between one of his looks of chilly disappointment and his sparing words of praise.

He frowned.  _Screw Harvey._

He’d told himself repeatedly that it didn’t hurt, the way Harvey had avoided him since the morning St. John had threatened him.  What should Mike have expected, though?

As a sense of normality returned to his life, the sharp fear receded, and it began to appear that St. John did not possess the omniscience that had knotted Mike’s stomach and kept him awake for too many long nights.  The days passed, no IM’s or phone calls or emails arrived, and Mike felt more and more like his old self.  If not for the scar from the gunshot and lingering nightmares, he might have let the whole business slide into the past to become one more strange episode in a life filled with them, barely remembered and never mentioned.

And then there was Harvey.  He shook his head, annoyed, telling himself again to let it go.

Sounds from the end of the hallway told him that the janitor had arrived.  A few weeks ago, any noise would have had his heart racing like a cornered rabbit.  Having spent so many late nights here lately, he knew the routines of the building and now would only give the janitor a friendly nod and pass him the wastebasket and recycling box from under his desk.  Tonight, though, Mike didn’t wait for him to work his methodical way down the hall.  Mike was fucking exhausted, and if fucking Harvey Specter refused to fucking acknowledge their brief period of…fucking….

Mike’s lips thinned.  Once again, Mike asked himself what he had expected from Harvey.  He had never seen or heard any evidence that Harvey involved himself in long term relationships.

_Might as well quit behaving like the puppy he often accuses you of being, and get over it._

So what if his throat grew tight, his breathing became uneven and his eyes prickled with unshed tears like a Bieber-deprived prepubescent girl when he forced himself to accept that he and Harvey had been nothing more than a brief fling?  Worse, for Harvey it had been a pity-fling.

Glum and suddenly utterly exhausted, Mike shut down his computer, dragged his messenger bag from underneath his desk and headed for the elevators.

***

The temperature had dropped since lunchtime.  Although not quite freezing, it bit into Mike’s exposed face and hands as he pedaled his way towards home, making him shiver as he sped and zigzagged through the still crowded streets and sidewalks.  The cold air woke him up, and as he braked in front of his apartment building half an hour later, he paused a moment to catch his breath.  The series of storms that had rolled through for the last month and a half had finally given way to clear skies and air so fresh and still that it seemed as if the night was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.  The bare trees spaced out along the sidewalk sat quietly, and the few remaining leaves on the ground appeared frozen, just needing a gust of wind to reanimate them and throw them spiraling up into the sky.

Each breath Mike took stung his lungs a little, and each exhalation sent a white puff of air in front of his face.  Above him, he could see rectangles of light, muted little islands of life on the quiet street.  A strange notion took hold of him, a feeling of banishment, as if he’d been relegated to this position, outside looking in, stuck here because of all the things that made him different:  his eidetic memory, the early demise of his parents, the lie about Harvard that lurked underneath any success he might achieve at Pearson Hardman, the ugly episode with St. John that felt like a thin, invisible coat of slime which would either wash away eventually, or slowly seep more deeply into his skin, down to his core, corroding and rotting away his essential self.

 _Oh my god,_ said the sardonic voice inside his head.  _Drama!_

He smiled a little until he realized that the voice sounded suspiciously like Harvey.  A painful, exaggerated sigh moved through his chest and he dismounted, hoisted his bike onto his shoulder and carried it up the two steps and through the unlocked front door of his building.

The unlocked door might have been his first clue, but it happened often enough, and he was distracted enough, that he barely noticed it.

The second clue was darkness on the stairs leading up to the fourth floor.  Maintenance in the building was haphazard enough that he might not have noticed that either, but in the usual course of things only one or two lights at a time were out.  Tonight, deep shadows filled every flight of stairs, relieved only by the occasional sliver of light shining underneath an apartment door.  He made his way by feel, his feet finding their way unerringly past the rips in the carpet, the disturbing blood stain that had been there for two years, and the week-old remnants of partially cleaned vomit.  As he made each turn, angling his bike just right so that it didn’t scrape the walls, unease took root within him.  His feet slowed, instinct making him reluctant to continue, stubborn denial prodding him forward.

When he reached his floor, he stopped, frozen in disbelief.  His apartment door stood completely open, the interior dark.  He lowered his bike to the worn wood floor of the hallway, letting the tires bounce lightly one time before steadying it with shaking hands.

_Run._

The word blared through his mind, nearly drowned out by the pounding of his heart.  Simultaneously the faint strip of light leaking from underneath the door of his neighbor across the hallway picked out a shape just inside his own door.  A rectangular… _something_ lay flat against his floor.  Curious despite the fear spiking through him, he leaned his bike against the wall and crept closer, leaning in until his eyes, used to the darkness, made out the rectangle, and he squatted, reaching his arm as far as it would go until he traced the cool metal edge.  Tilting his head to one side, he used his fingertips to drag the item closer, feeling letters etched into the surface.

As if in slow motion, he slid a hand into his the messenger bag which hung at his back and felt around for the small flashlight he kept in there.  Clicking it on, he shone it over the strange item.  The brass surface winked at him.  He moved the light slowly from left to right and read, with escalating horror, what had been etched on its face, even as a disembodied, raspy voice drifted from his entryway, as if reading that same etched word aloud:

_‘Michael.’_

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

Harvey shifted in the seat of the rented Audi, mouth pressed into a thin line as he watched Mike’s apartment building from across the street and halfway down the block.  He kept his gaze on Mike’s bedroom window, glancing occasionally at his watch while a frown appeared, deepening as the seconds ticked by.  Finally, he gave a frustrated huff and grabbed his cell phone from his jacket pocket, rapidly tapping the screen to bring up the number he had dialed half a dozen times already that night.

“Specter,” came Agent Ragnvaldsdottir’s voice, speaking with exaggerated and audibly strained patience.  “As I’ve explained, _ad nauseam_ , you shouldn’t be here.  If you want us to let you stay, you cannot interfere with our op.”

Harvey glared at the surveillance van, one hundred yards up the street from him, and then returned his attention to the fourth floor.  “Mike’s light didn’t come on.”

“Yes…which means absolutely nothing, Specter.  We’ve had someone watching this place for over a month now.  St. John hasn’t come anywhere near it.”

“We should have told Mike.  As soon as you found out St. John was still in New York – ”

“Don’t start that again.  We are all well aware of your disagreement with our decision.”

“Because it is completely asinine.  Using a civilian as bait, especially without informing him, is ludicrous at best, and probably actionable.”

Her voice hardened.  “We are looking to take down a man who has killed at least a dozen people, maybe more.  Every precaution has been taken to ensure Mike’s safety.  More importantly, this isn’t your call, and you’re here on sufferance only.  So why don’t you do everyone a favor, including yourself, and either go home or shut your damn pie hole.  If you can’t do either of those, I’ll have you taken into custody for the duration of this operation.”

Harvey could almost feel the steam pouring from his ears, and was composing a scathing reply in his head when the sound of shattering glass pulled his attention back to Mike’s window.  A wooden chair sailed from the fourth floor and down to the sidewalk, exploding into kindling with a dry crash.  He froze in shock, barely noticing that Agent Ragnvaldsdottir had ended the call.  Then the van’s doors opened and three agents leapt to the sidewalk with guns drawn, vaulting up the front stairs of Mike’s building, leading half a dozen others who had been concealing themselves elsewhere up and down the narrow street.

Shaking off his shock, Harvey opened the car door and made his way toward the building with a touch more caution.  Before he reached front steps, the entire building went dark, followed seconds later by what seemed to be the whole neighborhood.  Suddenly blind, Harvey stopped in his tracks, waiting for his eyes to adjust and listening hard.

Confused shouting came from inside the building.  Moments later, the beam of several flashlights swept across Mike’s window.  A figure, silhouetted in the light, moved to the window and stood for a moment, peering out.  Harvey thought he recognized Agent Yee’s slight build but he couldn’t be sure.  From his angle beneath and to the left, it could have been almost anyone, including Mike.  Or St. John.  The lights moved on, leaving the window dark once more.  Harvey growled in frustration.  What the hell was happening up there?

He crept up the stairs, just visible now in the light of the quarter moon and the stars shining faintly overhead.  Reaching the open door, he paused, listening again.  The shouting had stopped, but he imagined he could hear soft murmurs drifting down the stairwell, and the sounds of footsteps moving overhead, the floorboards of the old building creaking and complaining at the intrusion.  Entering the building, he held his breath and closed the door softly behind him.  Listened again.  Moved forward, eyes straining to penetrate the blackness, keeping his steps slow and light.

A slamming door above him had him freezing in place, heart hammering in his chest.  He waited, started moving once again with agonizing slowness and then nearly came out of his skin as a gun popped twice and was followed a second later by the louder report of a higher caliber weapon.

Quiet descended again.  Harvey shut his eyes briefly, struggling to bring his nerves back under control.  He looked at the stairs again, trying to see what was up there, debating the wisdom of charging up there to find Mike.

Even as he stared, a soft whisper of sound reached him, not close enough to pinpoint its location.  Had it come from down the hallway, or from above him in the stairwell?  He continued to listen, holding his breath in an effort to achieve absolute silence.

_There._

Someone inched down the stairs, perhaps a flight or two up.  He scanned the first floor hallway, searching for a hiding place, and had just decided that the darkness would have to do for concealment, when the furtive steps changed, suddenly pounding down the stairs with a careless speed and volume that clearly broadcast a need to _escape._

Not pausing to think about the consequences, Harvey waited until the fleeing steps had reached the last half-flight of stairs.  He clenched his jaw and moved to the bottom of the stairs, directly in St. John’s path, intending to body-block him before he realized Harvey was there.  A shadowy shape appeared and rapidly closed the distance between them.  Harvey turned sideways, lowered one shoulder and moved into the man as he charged for the first floor.

His shoulder made satisfying contact with the other man’s solar plexus and he was rewarded with a low grunt of pain and surprise.  St. John fell backwards, splayed over the steps.  Immediately, Harvey sprang on top of him, wrapping his arms around what was suddenly a squirming cyclone of lean muscle.

“Hold still, you fucker,” he growled.  Astonishingly, the other man obeyed at once.

Harsh breathing filled the air between them, and then, “Harvey?” came Mike’s incredulous whisper.

“Holy fuck.  Mike?  Are you okay?”

A pained sounding huff of laughter.  “I was until you nailed me.  Shit, that hurt.”  He sat up slowly, rubbing his chest.

They both heard it at the same time:  the sound of heavier steps above them, growing closer.

Harvey clamped a hand around Mike’s bicep and hauled him to his feet.  “Is that…?” he whispered.

“Pretty sure it is.  Don’t want to find out.  Maybe we’d better….”

“Way ahead of you,” said Harvey.  He let his hand slide down Mike’s arm to his wrist and dragged him toward the front door, choosing speed over stealth.  As they hustled through the door, the report of a gun came from the stairs, followed by the zing of bullet much too close and the splintering of wood from the doorjamb over their heads.

Harvey yanked Mike through the door and practically threw him down the short flight of stairs, shielding him with his body.  On the sidewalk, he grabbed his shoulders and aimed him towards his car, yelling, “Go!  Go!”

Mike didn’t waste his breath responding, just sprinted off down the block.  Gunshots chased them, none coming close, suggesting either that St. John’s famous composure was unraveling or the power outage (St. John’s doing?) was working to their advantage.  St. John was close behind though, and could easily get off a lucky shot.  Harvey eyed the car, judging it too far away to offer them safety.  Without pausing, he grabbed Mike’s hand and changed course abruptly, pulling him into an alley that cut between Mike’s street and the next one over.

Harvey’s lungs began to burn, and he resolved to begin spending more time on the treadmill.  Another gunshot sounded, magnified by the closeness of the alley, and they put on a fresh burst of speed.  Too late, Harvey saw the closed metal gate at the end of the alley.  They barreled right into it at full speed and did a synchronized bounce backwards which might have been comical under different circumstances.  As the fell to the filthy ground in a tangled heap, Mike grunted and Harvey cursed through gritted teeth.

Not bothering to concern himself with possible injuries, Harvey rose into a half-crouch, dragging Mike along by his jacket lapel, and first pushed and then pulled at the rusty gate.  It didn’t budge.  He resumed cursing, low and savage.  Electricity in the neighborhood chose that moment to come back on and they froze, illuminated like startled possums in headlights.  St. John approached from the opposite end of the alley, gun held almost casually out to one side, grinning and strolling towards them like he had all of the time in the world.

Harvey noted almost dispassionately that St. John had lost weight.  Gone was the impeccable haircut and designer clothing.  As he grew closer, his eyes seemed to glow with a manic light.

“Specter,” he rasped in his weird voice.  “Welcome to the party.  I’m surprised your friends at the FBI allowed you along on their little stakeout.  Uh uh.  Nope.  Do not move.  Be hard to miss from this distance.”  He lifted the gun to chest level, arm straight out, other hand coming up to add stability.

Mike pulled in a breath and stepped forward, shaking off Harvey’s grasping hand.  “Let Harvey go,” he said, voice surprisingly steady.  “He’s got nothing to do with this.  This is just you and me.”

St. John laughed, one harsh explosion of sound.  “You think so?  Tell me, Michael, how does it feel to be used as bait?”

Harvey saw Mike’s sudden jerk, quickly controlled.  “Mike….” he murmured and trailed off, not sure what else he could say.

St. John laughed again and took a small, shuffling step forward.  “That’s right, baby, those very special agents you put your trust in have been using you as their stalking horse.  Not very nice behavior.  I’ll bet you’re feeling betrayed, disappointed, hurt.  Maybe just a little?  But what if I told you that your precious Harvey Specter was part of the same conspiracy, keeping secrets from you and letting you walk straight into danger.  Now _that_ , I’m guessing, hurts something fierce.  Yes.  I can see it on your face, plain as day.”  He made a _tsking_ sound and shook his head, feigning sadness.  “He can be a real bastard, can’t he Michael?”

Another step brought St. John closer, and Harvey gauged the distance, estimating how close he would need to come for Harvey to make a successful lunge for the gun, or a hard tackle that would bring him down.  He blocked out the image of Mike’s wide eyes and his frown as he glanced between Harvey and St. John, who only had eyes for Mike.

“It’s all right, Michael.  I’m here to take care of Mr. Harvey Specter for you.  Then we can be together.  We’ll disappear.  I’ll show you how it’s done.”  He scowled, gaze going vague and unfocused.  “I wouldn’t dream of hurting you Michael.  Never.  You have to know that.  You’re the one.  The one I’ve been searching for.”  He stepped forward, the level of the gun dropping slightly.  “You ran from me, though.”  He shook his head as if annoyed by a persistent flying insect.  “That was….”  Another shake of his head.  “But.”  He smiled.  “But, but, but….That’s all over now.  We belong to one another, and this – ”  He waved the gun in Harvey’s direction.  “This _person_ is irrelevant.  Obsolete.”

When the gun came up again, steady and level, and St. John’s eyes snapped back into focus, Harvey knew he had to act.  Shoving Mike toward the wall of the alley, he dove for St. John’s feet.  The gun boomed close to his ear, and then echoed behind St. John.  Harvey’s forward momentum continued, and his shoulder struck St. John’s upper thigh.  Instead of cutting his legs out from under him, he toppled him onto his back, the other man seeming to fall in slow motion, the gun clattering to the ground.

Harvey found himself lying halfway on top of St. John’s limp body.  Looking down, he saw blood and shattered bone covering St. John’s chest and spattering across his own front.  He let his gaze drift upwards and spotted Agent Yee, handgun still raised, mimicking St. John’s pose of seconds earlier.  Behind Yee, the mouth of the alley suddenly filled up with men and women, each charging in a full out sprint, and each slamming on the brakes as soon as the saw the tableau in front of them.

Breathless silence reigned for a few seconds before Yee spoke.  “You both okay?  Specter?  Ross?”

Hauling himself painfully to his feet, Harvey nodded.  “Sure,” he said, nodding and breathing hard.  “We’re good.”

Behind him, he heard a soft movement and he turned to find huge blue eyes boring into him.

“Harvey?” Mike breathed.  His mouth thinned, expression turning ugly.  “You knew?  You fucking _knew?_ ”

Harvey held up one hand and stepped towards Mike.  “Don’t freak out on me here.”

Mike shook his head, breaking off eye contact.  “Fuck you,” he grated.  “Just…fuck you, Harvey.”

And then he strode past Harvey, picked up speed as he neared the other end of the alley, shrugged off Agent Yee’s hand and kept walking.  To Harvey, he seemed to have been swallowed up in a sea of law enforcement personnel (although he knew that in reality it couldn’t have been much more than a dozen), swallowed up, shielded, vanished.

“Yeah,” Harvey whispered to himself, chest tight with the unaccustomed sensation of regret.  “ _Fuck me_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, apologies for the long delay. I'll spare you the whining about my life. Let's just put it down to too many distractions and leave it at that. As always, I treasure every single comment and kudo I've gotten and apologize for the ones that have gone unanswered. Just...thank you so much for the positive feedback, and for continuing to read.


	20. Chapter 20

“Hey, Ross.  Mike!  Wait up.”

Mike stifled a groan and turned his head to stare grimly at Harold, who, it seemed, had chased him all the way from the elevator bay in the lobby and out to the sidewalk.  As much as he would like to tell Harold to get lost rather than endure another excruciating interrogation from a co-worker, Harold was so artless and good-natured that Mike sighed resignedly, moved out of the lunch hour rush of office workers and waited with as much patience as he could muster for what he assumed would become the latest round of, _‘Was it really you?  Weren’t you scared?  What_ really _happened with him?’_. 

Somehow word had gotten around the firm that an associate at Pearson Hardman had been involved in the final showdown with St. John.  Despite her assurances to the contrary, Mike was pretty sure that Special Agent Ragnvaldsdottir had been responsible for that.  Bringing St. John in alive would have been a much bigger feather in her cap, and she hadn’t been shy in expressing her displeasure over Harvey’s interference, going so far as to blame him for making Yee’s fatal shot necessary.  Exactly how exposing Mike’s role equated to punishing Harvey, he hadn’t worked out.

Mike hadn’t had the energy to sort it all out in his mind, even one week later.  Harvey’s betrayal still stung, to the point that he had briefly considered just telling Harvey “fuck you very much” and walking away from the job.  He still needed to pay for his grandmother’s care, however.  And he couldn’t forget how much of himself he had sacrificed to St. John in order to stay at Pearson Hardman.

As angry as he was at discovering the target that had been painted on his forehead for nearly a month without his knowledge or consent, the part of him that had remained sane and logical throughout the whole nightmare insisted that he needed to suck it up, take whatever flimsy scraps of dignity he still had, bury himself in work and hope that one day in the not too distant future the whole ugly business would be just a distant speed bump in his rearview mirror.

In the meantime, he had made it a point to avoid Harvey as much as possible.  Since Harvey seemed to have the same idea, it hadn’t been as hard as he had expected.  Avoiding pointed questions from curious co-workers?  Not so easy.

Harold caught up with him.  “On your way to lunch?” he asked Mike.

Mike nodded reluctantly.

“Oh, great.  I’ll come with you.  It’s not always easy to get away, but so much of Louis’ busy work is caught up.  Can you believe it?  We leave at night and the piles are still there.  We get here in the morning – really early sometimes – and stuff is just…done!  Like elves or something.”  He giggled.  “Weird, huh?”

Mike grunted noncommittally, leading the way toward the out-of-the-way sandwich place he had found, tucked in an alley and down a long flight of stairs.  Harold followed happily along, still burbling away like a Xanax-polluted brook.

“So,” said Harold finally when they were seated in the dimly lit café, turkey sandwiches and beer ordered, “ _somebody_ hinted that it was you who helped catch St. John in the end. That’s so cool.”

“Somebody,” repeated Mike glumly, tracing the scars on the wood tabletop with one finger. 

“Well…Louis, actually, although I’m not supposed to repeat that.  He’s been really peculiar about it all.  He wanted me to grill you for details.”

Mike glanced up and then back down at the table.  “Did he now?”

“You know Louis.  But don’t worry.  I wouldn’t be comfortable trying something like that.  I…I just…well, shit, Mike.  Are you okay?”

Startled, Mike looked up, meeting Harold’s concerned gaze.  “Am I…?  Um.”  Between all of the pointed questions and thinly disguised prurient interest, no one else had bothered to ask him that.  “Well, yeah.  That is, I’m getting there.  I will be.  Thanks for asking, Harold.  Seriously.”

“Good.  That’s good.  And…can I be honest with you Mike?”

He shrugged.  “Sure.”

Their food and drink arrived.  Harold took a quick drink of beer and licked the foam from his upper lip, looking anxious.  “Some of the other associates are happy enough to be working with him, but I don’t think it’s right, what he’s doing.”

Mike took a sip of his own beer, squinting his eyes in confusion.  “Who?  Louis?”

“No.  Harvey.  I’m talking about him getting those other douche—that is, the other associates, you know, Kyle and Gregory and some of the others—getting them to do your work.”

Mike stared at him blankly.  “What now?”

Harold nodded serenely.  “Yep.  I didn’t think you knew.  They all think they’re the new ‘golden boy.’  Like they could all be a golden boy at the same time, right?  Wow, you were right, this sandwich is killer.”

Appetite suddenly vanished, Mike watched Harold devour his sandwich, white globs of mayonnaise appearing at the corners of his mouth only to be caught on the tip of his tongue and flicked delicately into his mouth.  All the while, he continued talking non-stop.  Mike couldn’t have said what he talked about, because his mind was stuck on the revelation that while he had been avoiding Harvey (which Harvey deserved, after all), Harveyhad been replacing him, and that was just fucked up.  Harvey was at fault here, not Mike.

By the time Harold had finished his sandwich, and Mike had taken a few nibbles of his own and downed a couple of beers, he had worked himself into a state of righteous indignation which fueled his steps back to the office, up the elevator, and all the way to Harvey’s door.

 

S*S*S*S*S*S

 

Harvey sighed and tried – manfully tried, he insisted to himself – to pin Gregory with a chilly death glare.  The associate continued to smirk back at him, so full of himself that Harvey longed to stick an actual pin into him and watch the arrogance come spurting out of him like a breached water balloon.

 _I’m slipping,_ he acknowledged glumly.  _Can’t even seem to terrorize an underling properly._  

“Look,” he snapped finally, “if you don’t have a precedent that’s relevant to the case, what the fuck are you doing barging in here and interrupting me?”

Gregory flushed, but lifted his chin and blurted, “ _Kemp v. Glick_ is relevant – ”

“Nine years ago, maybe.  _U.S. v. Martenson_ kind of blows it right out of the water, don’t you think?  What’s that?  No?  You don’t think?  Obviously not, or you might have achieved an elementary grasp of how to research case law.  You sure you graduated from Harvard?  Maybe we ought to recheck your credentials.”  He winced internally even as the words came out of his mouth, reminding him of Mike, and quickly waved Gregory away.  “Get out.  Go back to Louis and…I don’t know…polish his cufflinks or something.”  He continued to flick the fingers of one hand at the other man, returning his attention to the documents on his desk without bothering to watch Gregory leave.

He mumbled darkly to himself, trying not to think about Mike’s superior research skills…trying, as he had been for the last week, not to think of Mike at all.  It didn’t help that any time he allowed his attention to drift from work, he pictured Mike the way he had looked splayed across Harvey’s bed, and he could smell him, could hear his groans and pants, his hoarse shout as he came –

“Harvey.”

– into his office.

Harvey tensed and looked up.  His gut spasmed at the sight of Mike standing in front of his desk, cheeks flushed as if from some sort of exertion, hands on his hips, blues eyes narrowed with anger.

Carefully setting his pen on his desk, Harvey sat back in his chair and forced himself to continue meeting Mike’s gaze.  “Mike,” he said, letting the word fall flat and emotionless into the space between them.  “Did you need something?”

Hands thrust into his pants pockets, Mike paced to the window and then back to stand in front of Harvey’s desk.  “You’re such a dick.”

Any conciliatory words Harvey may have offered flew out of his head at this blunt statement.  “Wow,” he said, huffing out an unkind laugh.  “A whole week to stew and that’s what you came up with?”

He instantly regretted his words as he watched Mike draw a breath preparatory to unleashing one of his patented self-righteous rants.  Hoping to head him off, Harvey waved a hand tiredly, sighing.  “Sorry.  That came out….”

Mike waited a beat for him to finish.  “Wrong?” he finally asked.

Harvey laughed without humor.  “No.  Just came out.  Sorry that came out.”  He rubbed his forehead, trying to soothe away the headache he could feel building behind his eyes.

Now Mike looked both angry and confused.

“Shall I just wait while you build up another head of steam?”  Harvey waved his hand towards the work on his desk.  “I need to get back to this, but you be sure to let me know when you’re ready to continue.”  Despite his words, Harvey left his work untouched while he stared up at Mike, waiting.

The silence stretched between them.  Mike’s shoulders slumped.  “Shit,” he said.  “I have to hand it to you, Harvey.  “You certainly have the biggest balls of them all.”

“In the immortal words of….”  Seeing the complete lack of humor on Mike’s face, Harvey left the sentence unfinished.  He gave Mike a searching look.  “What’s this about?  I mean specifically.  Today.  You’ve had all week to unload on me, so why now?”  He watched Mike’s face grow white and pinched and more pain lanced through Harvey’s midsection.

Moving to one of the chairs in front of Harvey’s desk, Mike dropped heavily into it, as if his legs could no longer support him.  “Okay.  Here’s the thing:  it’s not bad enough that you made me fucking care about you, after which you proceeded to lie to my face for nearly a month, let me walk around thinking I was perfectly safe while that…that evil fuck was right here, watching and waiting to…to….Do you know how disturbing that is, even after the fact?  Doubtful.  Or maybe you understood perfectly how this would make me feel, in which case…I mean… _Dude._ ”

Mike’s slip into stoner-speak nearly make Harvey shoot back an acerbic response, but he suspected that wouldn’t go over well with the younger man.  In fact, as he studied Mike’s averted face, Harvey could almost sense the malevolent ghosts that circled around Mike and made it difficult for him to draw a breath.

It hurt to watch.

Harvey sighed.  Without thinking about what he was doing, he stood and moved around his desk to crouch in front of Mike, hands on the arms of his chair.  “I had no choice, baby.  Agent Rag…fuck it.  Agent Ridiculous name and…Jet Li made it clear that they’d detain me somewhere unpleasant if I clued you in.  I couldn’t allow that, because how could I be there to protect you if I was locked up?”

Mike’s lips tightened.  “So…what you’re saying is that the FBI had a figurative gun to your head?”  Mike held his gaze, his own filled with challenge.  “And that you couldn’t or wouldn’t follow your own advice?”

Harvey winced, feeling the direct hit of Mike’s logic.  Then he gave his head a small shake.  “Slight difference here, kid.  They also have _actual_ guns.”

“So did St. John.  I know because I heard the bullets as they whizzed past my head.”

“Don’t remind me,” Harvey ground out, growing irritated.  “I was there too, remember?  And I may have lied to you— _under duress_ —but I made sure your ignorance wouldn’t harm you.  I never once left you alone.  I was there every night, outside your apartment, taking shit from those FBI jackholes and logging about two hours of sleep a night.  So maybe you should stop with the sulking and evil looks and just cut me a fucking break, here.  I’ve apologized.  I’ve explained why I did what I did.  What more do you want?”

Blue eyes stared back at him, and shit, the kid still looked pissed off.  “Why are you – ” began Mike, stopped and tried again.  “Do you think…do you believe I’m too damaged or messed up after everything that happened?”

“ _What?”_   Harvey gaped at Mike, utterly blindsided by the question.  “No!  Christ, Mike, do you really think I’m that big of an asshole?”

“Then why don’t you want to work with me anymore?  Why are you getting those other jerks to work for you?  We both know I’m better and smarter than they are.”

Mike’s voice was angry, but Harvey could hear something else underneath it, some deeply rooted insecurity that didn’t fit.  He cocked his head and studied the younger man, trying to put the pieces together.

A genius who hung out with a tool like Trevor and let him ruin his chances in school.

A beautiful young man who let strangers fuck him in seedy rooms.

A kid who could seemingly pluck brilliant strategy out of the air, who could think outside the box unlike few others, and who possessed a moral compass so straight and true that he could navigate on the night of the new moon in densest fog and find home every time…but who had been effortlessly manipulated by a man like Sandor St. John, and to a lesser degree by Louis Litt.

Someone whose insecurities went back at least as far as the day both of his parents perished in a car crash, and who had been longing ever since to be reassured that he was good enough, that he was worth loving, and that everything would be okay.

Harvey felt wholly inadequate to the task, but he knew he had to give it a try.  His hands slid from the chair arms to Mike’s.

“I chose you, Mike,” he began.  “I.  Chose.  You.  The crazy-eyed, budding pot dealer without a college degree, much less a law degree.  This last week I figured you were angry with me, and rightly so.  I only meant to give you some time.  I wasn’t punishing you by giving work to Kyle and Gregory.  If anything, I was punishing myself.  If you want all that work piled on you, I’d be more than happy to oblige.  You’re worth ten of them, anyway.”

Mike didn’t smile at the unaccustomed praise, but something in his posture changed, and Harvey knew that he was all but forgiven.

“Ten?” Mike asked.  “That’s a little over the top.”

“At least ten.  Possibly more.”

“You’re losing credibility fast.  Better stop there.”

Harvey hummed suggestively.  “What if I don’t want to stop there?”

Mike laughed and the knot in Harvey’s stomach eased.  He pushed to his feet and could hear his knees pop.  By the sound of Mike’s quickly stifled laugh, he had heard too.  “One word,” warned Harvey, “regarding my age relative to yours and I’ll give you to Louis for a month.”

Mike sobered quickly at that, and Harvey could have kicked himself.  “So,” he said, perching on the corner of his desk and changing the subject, “any chance that we can move past this, and get back to….”  He paused, searching for a tactful way to suggest it.  “Uh, to picking up where we left off, vis-à-vis….”

“Fucking like bunnies?”  Mike stared at him, his expression hard. 

Harvey waited, and when Mike didn’t continue, he crossed his arms over his chest.  “Well?  Is there?” he asked, not seeing any point in being coy about it.

“Huh,” said Mike.  “That’s funny, because I thought you were going to ask if we could go back to working together.”

“I want that, too.”

“More or less than the other thing?”

“Mike….”

“Look.  First things first.  Tell Gregory and Kyle to take a hike.  I’m your associate, and the sooner they’re reminded of that, the better.”

“You want to pee on me a little to mark your territory?”

Mike looked equal parts appalled and intrigued.  “Are you into that?”

“What do you think?”

“Not with your suit on, anyway.”

Mike was cracking jokes, which could only be a good thing.

“Have dinner with me.”  Harvey heard the command in that statement, so he softened it a little with an added, “please.”

“And then?”  Mike’s knee jittered restlessly.

“And then we’ll go from there.”

Mike shut his eyes for a few seconds, and when he opened them again, his gaze remained steadfastly on the wall behind Harvey.  “You know,” he said, voice a little distant, “if it weren’t the middle of the work day, and the halls weren’t crawling with lawyers and paralegals and clients, I’d drop to my knees without a second thought and blow you.  You’d love it, too.”

“Undoubtedly.  No one’s asking you to do that, though.  So what’s your point?”

“Just…I’m beginning to suspect I was a bit of a slut before St. John made me his whore.”

“Mike….”

“Yeah.  I know.  Boo hoo.  Just a brief outbreak of self-pity.  Hang on….  Yep.  I think it’s over.”

“You’re entitled.”

“Maybe.  It’s not normally my style, though.”  He sighed.  “To answer your question:  No.  No dinner.  No bunny sex.  I’m not saying not ever, just not yet.  I need to let some more of this poison drain out of me.  Give me…I don’t know…another month.  If you’re still interested, ask me again.  Try to close me then and we’ll see.  We’ll just see.  That’s the best I can give you right now.”

“Fair enough.”  Harvey intoned the words in what he hoped was a reasonable voice, but just saying them, agreeing to the delay, made him ill.  He covered it by reaching for a file on his desk and tossing it into Mike’s lap.  “In the meantime, find me a precedent to help the client wriggle out of this lawsuit.  And if you dare to come back to me with _Kemp v. Glick_ , I’ll give you to Louis for two months.”

Mike stood, making his _I scoff at you, fool_ face.  “ _Kemp v. Glick?_   Don’t be ridiculous, puny human.”

Harvey cut him off before he could really get into his riff.  “Get out.”

Saluting him with the file folder, Mike gave a half-smile.  “Aye, aye.”

To his credit, Harvey waited until his office was empty before he broke into an amused grin.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting, kudo-ing, and putting up with my glacial writing speed, especially near the end. I regret not answering all of the nice comments I received, but life continues to punch me in the face. Just know that I appreciated every single one of them. (The comments, not the face-punches.)


End file.
